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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  H.  K.  BROWNE. 


NEW  YORK: 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO., 

46  East  Fourteenth  St. 


BERWICK  A  SMITH,   PRINTERS,  BOSTON. 


8  2-3 


CONTENTS. 
vol.  n. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Appointed  Time   1 

H.    Interlopers   17 

III.   A  Turn  of  the  Screw   34 

IY.    Esther's  Narrative   52 

V.    Chesney  Wold   68 

VI.    Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce   85 

VII.   A  Struggle   105 

VIII.    Attorney  and  Client   117 

IX.   National  and  Domestic   134 

X.    In  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  Room   147 

XI.  In  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  Chambers       .      .      .  .157 

XII.  Esther's  Narrative   166 

XIII.  The  Letter  and  the  Answer   183 

XIV.  In  Trust   191 

XV.    Stop  Him   205 

XVI.    Jo's  Will   215 

XVII.    Closing  In   231 

XVIII.   Dutiful  Friendship   249 

XIX.    Esther's  Narrative   264 

XX.  Enlightened    .........  275 

XXI.   Obstinacy   .      .  .287 

XXII.    The  Track   300 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.    Springing  a  Mine  313 

XXIY.    Flight  336 

XXV.    Pursuit  353 

XXVI.    Esther's  Narrative  362 

XXVII.    A  Wintry  Day  and  Night  381 

XXVIII.    Esther's  Narrative  397 

XXIX.    Perspective  .411 

XXX.    A  Discovery  425 

XXXI.    Another  Discovery  437 

XXXII.    Steel  and  Iron  447 

XXXIII.  Esther's  Narrative  456 

XXXIV.  Beginning  the  World  468 

XXXV.   Down  in  Lincolnshire  476 

XXXVI.  The  Close  of  Esther's  Narrative       .      .  .481 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

VOL.  II. 


PAGE 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock   .      .      .    H.  K.  Browne  .  Frontispiece 

The  Appointed  Time  ...  "  ...  15 
The  Old  Man  of  the  Name  of 

tulkinghorn  ....  "  ...  32 
Mr.  Small  weed  Breaks  the  Pipe 

of  Peace   "  ...  43 

Lady  Dedlock  in  the  Wood  .  "  ...  74 

The  Ghost's  Walk  ....  "  ...  81 
Attorney  and  Client,  Fortitude 

and  Impatience  ....  "  ...  121 
Sunset  in  the  Long  Drawing-room 

at  ChesneyWold      ...  "  ...  136 

Tom-all-Alone's       ....  "  ...  205 

A  New  Meaning  in  the  Roman    .  "  ...  247 

Friendly  Behavior  of  Mr.  Bucket  "  ...  257 

Light   "  ...  282 

Shadow   "  ...  312 

Mrs.  Bagnet  returns  from  her 

Expedition   "  ...  339 

The  Lonely  Figure  ....  "  ...  361 

The  Night   ......  "  ...  365 

The  Morning   "  ...  409 

Magnanimous    Conduct    of  Mr. 

Guppy   "  ...  466 

The  Mausoleum  at  Chesney  Wold  "  ...  476 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  APPOINTED  TIME. 

It  is  night  in  Lincoln's  Inn  —  perplexed  and  troublous 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  the  law,  where  suitors  generally  find 
but  little  day  —  and  fat  candles  are  snuffed  out  in  offices,  and 
clerks  have  rattled  down  the  crazy  wooden  stairs,  and  dispersed. 
The  bell  that  rings  at  nine  o'clock  has  ceased  its  doleful 
clangor  about  nothing ;  the  gates  are  shut ;  and  the  night- 
porter,  a  solemn  warder  with  a  mighty  power  of  sleep,  keeps 
guard  in  his  lodge.  From  tiers  of  staircase  windows,  clogged 
lamps  like  the  eyes  of  Equity,  bleared  Argus  with  a  fathomless 
pocket  for  every  eye  and  an  eye  upon  it,  dimly  blink  at  the 
stars.  In  dirty  upper  casements,  here  and  there,  hazy  little 
patches  of  candle-light  reveal  where  some  wise  draughtsman 
and  conveyancer  yet  toils  for  the  entanglement  of  real  estate 
in  meshes  of  sheepskin,  in  the  average  ratio  of  about  a 
dozen  of  sheep  to  an  acre  of  land.  Over  which  bee-like  in- 
dustry, these  benefactors  of  their  species  linger  yet,  though 
office  hours  be  past :  that  they  may  give,  for  every  day,  some 
good  account  at  last. 

In  the  neighboring  court,  where  the  Lord  Chancellor  of 
the  Rag  and  Bottle  shop  dwells,  there  is  a  general  tendency 
towards  beer  and  supper.  Mrs.  Piper  and  Mrs.  Perkins, 
whose  respective  sons,  engaged  with  a  circle  of  acquaintance 
in  the  game  of  hide-and-seek,  have  been  lying  in  ambush 
about  the  byways  of  Chancery  Lane  for  some  hours,  and 
scouring  the  plain  of  the  same  thoroughfare  to  the  confusion 

VOL.  II. 


2 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


of  passengers  —  Mrs.  Piper  and  Mrs.  Perkins  have  but  now 
exchanged  congratulations  on  the  children  being  abed ;  and 
they  still  linger  on  a  doorstep  over  a  few  parting  words. 
Mr.  Krook  and  his  lodger,  and  the  fact  of  Mr.  Krook's  being 
"continually  in  liquor/'  and  the  testamentary  prospects  of 
the  young  man  are,  as  usual,  the  staple  of  their  conversation. 
But  they  have  something  to  say,  likewise,  of  the  Harmonic 
Meeting  at  the  Sol's  Arms ;  where  the  sound  of  the  piano 
through  the  partly  opened  windows  jingles  out  into  the 
court,  and  where  little  Swills,  after  keeping  the  lovers  of 
harmony  in  a  roar  like  a  very  Yorick,  may  now  be  heard 
taking  the  gruff  line  in  a  concerted  piece,  and  sentimentally 
adjuring  his  friends  and  patrons  to  Listen,  listen,  listen,  Tew 
the  wa-ter-Fall!  Mrs.  Perkins  and  Mrs.  Piper  compare 
opinions  on  the  subject  of  the  young  lady  of  professional 
celebrity  who  assists  at  the  Harmonic  Meetings,  and  who  has 
a  space  to  herself  in  the  manuscript  announcement  in  the 
window;  Mrs.  Perkins  possessing  information  that  she  has 
been  married  a  year  and  a  half,  though  announced  as  Miss 
M.  Melvilleson,  the  noted  siren,  and  that  her  baby  is  clan- 
destinely conveyed  to  the  Sol's  Arms  every  night  to  receive  its 
natural  nourishment  during  the  entertainments.  "  Sooner 
than  which,  myself,"  says  Mrs.  Perkins,  "I  would  get  my 
living  by  selling  lucifers."  Mrs.  Piper,  as  in  duty  bound,  is 
of  the  same  opinion ;  holding  that  a  private  station  is  better 
than  public  applause,  and  thanking  Heaven  for  her  own  (and, 
by  implication,  Mrs.  Perkins's)  respectability.  By  this  time, 
the  pot-boy  of  the  Sol's  Arms  appearing  with  her  supper-pint 
well  frothed,  Mrs.  Piper  accepts  that  tankard  and  retires  in- 
doors, first  giving  a  fair  good-night  to  Mrs.  Perkins,  who  has 
had  her  own  pint  in  her  hand  ever  since  it  was  fetched 
from  the  same  hostelry  by  young  Perkins  before  he  was  sent 
to  bed.  Now,  there  is  a  sound  of  putting  up  shop-shutters 
in  the  court,  and  a  smell  as  of  the  smoking  of  pipes ;  and 
shooting  stars  are  seen  in  upper  windows,  further  indicating 
retirement  to  rest.  Now,  too,  the  policeman  begins  to  push 
at  doors  ;  to  try  fastenings  ;  to  be  suspicious  of  bundles  ;  and 
to  administer  his  beat,  on  the  hypothesis  that  every  one  is 
either  robbing  or  being  robbed. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


3 


It  is  a  close  night,  though  the  damp  cold  is  searching 
too :  and  there  is  a  laggard  mist  a  little  way  up  in  the  air. 
It  is  a  fine  steaming  night  to  turn  the  slaughter-houses,  the 
unwholesome  trades,  the  sewerage,  bad  water,  and  burial- 
grounds  to  account,  and  give  the  Registrar  of  Deaths  some 
extra  business.  It  may  be  something  in  the  air  —  there  is 
plenty  in  it  —  or  it  may  be  something  in  himself,  that  is  in 
fault ;  but  Mr.  Weevle,  otherwise  Jobling,  is  very  ill  at  ease. 
He  comes  and  goes,  between  his  own  room  and  the  open 
street  door,  twenty  times  an  hour.  He  has  been  doing  so, 
ever  since  it  fell  dark.  Since  the  Chancellor  shut  up  his 
shop,  which  he  did  very  early  to-night,  Mr.  Weevle  has  been 
down  and  up,  and  down  and  up  (with  a  cheap  tight  velvet 
skull-cap  on  his  head,  making  his  whiskers  look  out  of  all 
proportion),  oftener  than  before. 

It  is  no  phenomenon  that  Mr.  Snagsby  should  be  ill  at  ease 
too ;  for  he  always  is  so,  more  or  less,  under  the  oppressive 
influence  of  the  secret  that  is  upon  him.  Impelled  by  the 
mystery,  of  which  he  is  a  partaker,  and  yet  in  which  he  is 
not  a  sharer,  Mr.  Snagsby  haunts  what  seems  to  be  its 
fountain-head  —  the  rag  and  bottle  shop  in  the  court.  It  has 
an  irresistible  attraction  for  him.  Even  now,  coming  round 
by  the  Sol's  Arms  with  the  intention  of  passing  down  the 
court,  and  out  at  the  Chancery  Lane  end,  and  so  terminating 
his  unpremeditated  after-supper  stroll  of  ten  minutes  long 
from  his  own  door  and  back  again,  Mr.  Snagsby  approaches. 

"  What,  Mr.  Weevle  ? "  says  the  stationer,  stopping  to 
speak.    "  Are  you  there  ?  " 

"Ay  !  "  says  Weevle.    "  Here  I  am,  Mr.  Snagsby." 

"  Airing  yourself,  as  I  am  doing,  before  you  go  to  bed  ? 99 
the  stationer  inquires. 

"  Why,  there's  not  much  air  to  be  got  here ;  and  what 
there  is,  is  not  very  freshening,"  Weevle  answers,  glancing 
up  and  down  the  court. 

"Very  true,  sir.  Don't  you  observe,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby, 
pausing  to  sniff  and  taste  the  air  a  little  ;  "  don't  you  observe, 
Mr.  Weevle,  that  you're  —  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it 
—  that  you're  rather  greasy  here,  sir  ?  " 

"Why,  I  have  noticed  myself  that  there  is  a  queer  kind 


4 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


of  flavor  in  the  place  to-night,"  Mr.  Weevle  rejoins.  "  I 
suppose  it's  chops  at  the  Sol's  Arms." 

"  Chops,  do  you  think  ?  Oh  !  —  Chops,  eh  ?  "  Mr.  Snagsby 
sniffs  and  tastes  again.  "  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  it  is.  But  I 
should  say  their  cook  at  the  Sol  wanted  a  little  looking 
after.  She  has  been  burning  'em,  sir  !  And  I  don't  think  ;  " 
Mr.  Snagsby  sniffs  and  tastes  again,  and  then  spits  and 
wipes  his  mouth ;  "  I  don't  think  —  not  to  put  too  fine  a 
point  upon  it  —  that  they  were  quite  fresh,  when  they  were 
shown  the  gridiron." 

"  That's  very  likely.    It's  a  tainting  sort  of  weather." 

"  It  is  a  tainting  sort  of  weather,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby  ;  "  and 
I  find  it  sinking  to  the  spirits." 

"By  George  !  /find  it  gives  me  the  horrors,"  returns  Mr. 
Weevle. 

"Then,  you  see,  you  live  in  a  lonesome  way,  and  in  a 
lonesome  room,  with  a  black  circumstance  hanging  over  it," 
says  Mr.  Snagsby,  looking  in  past  the  other's  shoulder  along 
the  dark  passage,  and  then  falling  back  a  step  to  look  up 
at  the  house.  "I  couldn't  live  in  that  room  alone,  as  you 
do,  sir.  I  should  get  so  fidgety  and  worried  of  an  evening, 
sometimes,  that  I  should  be  driven  to  come  to  the  door,  and 
stand  here,  sooner  than  sit  there.  But  then  it's  very  true 
that  you  didn't  see,  in  your  room,  what  /  saw  there.  That 
makes  a  difference." 

"  I  know  quite  enough  about  it,"  returns  Tony. 

"  It's  not  agreeable,  is  it  ?  "  pursues  Mr.  Snagsby,  coughing 
his  cough  of  mild  persuasion  behind  his  hand.  "  Mr.  Krook 
ought  to  consider  it  in  the  rent.  I  hope  he  does,  I  am 
sure." 

"  I  hope  he  does,"  says  Tony.    "  But  I  doubt  it !  " 

"  You  find  the  rent  high,  do  you,  sir  ? "  returns  the 
stationer.  "  "Rents  are  high  about  here.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is  exactly,  but  the  law  seems  to  put  things  up  in  price. 
Not,"  adds  Mr.  Snagsby  with  his  apologetic  cough,  "  that  I 
mean  to  say  a  word  against  the  profession  I  get  my  living  by." 

Mr.  Weevle  again  glances  up  and  down  the  court,  and 
then  looks  at  the  stationer.  Mr.  Snagsby,  blankly  catching 
his  eye,  looks  upward  for  a  star  or  so,  and  coughs  a  cough 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  5 

expressive  of  not  exactly  seeing  his  way  out  of  this  con- 
versation. 

"  It's  a  curious  fact,  sir,"  he  observes,  slowly  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  that  he  should  have  been  "  — 
"  Who's  he  ?  "  interrupts  Mr.  Weevle. 

"  The  deceased,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  twitching  his 
head  and  right  eyebrow  towards  the  staircase,  and  tapping 
his  acquaintance  on  the  button. 

"  Ah  to  be  sure  ! "  returns  the  other,  as  if  he  were  not  over- 
fond  of  the  subject.    "I  thought  we  had  done  with  him." 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,  it's  a  curious  fact,  sir,  that  he 
should  have  come  and  lived  here,  and  been  one  of  my  writers, 
and  then  that  you  should  come  and  live  here,  and  be  one  of 
my  writers,  too.  Which  there  is  nothing  derogatory,  but  far 
from  it  in  the  appellation,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  breaking  off 
with  a  mistrust  that  he  may  have  impolitely  asserted  a  kind 
of  proprietorship  in  Mr.  Weevle,  "  because  I  have  known 
writers  that  have  gone  into  Brewers'  houses  and  done  really 
very  respectable  indeed.  Eminently  respectable,  sir,"  adds 
Mr.  Snagsby,  with  a  misgiving  that  he  has  not  improved  the 
matter. 

"It's  a  curious  coincidence,  as' you  say,"  answers  Weevle, 
once  more  glancing  up  and  down  the  court. 

"Seems  a  Fate  in  it,  don't  there  ?  "  suggests  the  stationer. 
"  There  does." 

"Just  so,"  observes  the  stationer,  with  his  confirmatory 
cough.  "Quite  a  Fate  in  it.  Quite  a  Fate.  Well,  Mr.  Weevle, 
I  am  afraid  I  must  bid  you  good-night ; "  Mr.  Snagsby  speaks 
as  if  it  made  him  desolate  to  go,  though  he  has  been  casting 
about  for  any  means  of  escape  ever  since  he  stopped  to  speak ; 
"  my  little  woman  will  be  looking  for  me,  else.  Good-night, 
sir ! " 

If  Mr.  Snagsby  hastens  home  to  save  his  little  woman  the 
trouble  of  looking  for  him,  he  might  set  his  mind  at  rest  on 
that  score.  His  little  woman  has  had  her  eye  upon  him  round 
the  Sol's  Arms  all  this  time,  and  now  glides  after  him  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  wrapped  over  her  head ;  honoring  Mr. 
Weevle  and  his  doorway  with  a  very  searching  glance  as  she 
goes  past. 


6 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  You'll  know  me  again,  ma'am,  at  all  events/'  says  Mr. 
Weevle  to  himself ;  "  and  I  can't  compliment  you  on  your 
appearance,  whoever  you  are,  with  your  head  tied  up  in  a 
bundle.    Is  this  fellow  never  coming ! " 

This  fellow  approaches  as  he  speaks.  Mr.  Weevle  softly 
holds  up  his  finger,  and  draws  him  into  the  passage,  and  closes 
the  street  door.  Then,  they  go  up-stairs ;  Mr.  Weelve  heavily, 
and  Mr.  Guppy  (for  it  is  he)  very  lightly  indeed.  When  they 
are  shut  into  the  back  room,  they  speak  low. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  to  Jericho  at  least,  instead  of 
coming  here,"  says  Tony. 

"  Why,  I  said  about  ten." 

"You  said  about  ten,"  Tony  repeats.  "Yes,  so  you  did 
say  about  ten.  But,  according  to  my  count,  it's  ten  times  ten 
—  it's  a  hundred  o'clock.  I  never  had  such  a  night  in  my 
life ! " 

"What  has  been  the  matter  ?  " 

"That's  it!"  says  Tony.  "Nothing  has  been  the  matter. 
But,  here  have  I  been  stewing  and  fuming  in  this  jolly  old 
crib,  till  I  have  had  the  horrors  falling  on  me  as  thick  as  hail. 
There's  a  blessed  looking  candle  ! "  says  Tony,  pointing  to  the 
heavily  burning  taper  on  his  table  with  a  great  cabbage  head 
and  a  long  winding-sheet. 

"  That's  easily  improved,"  Mr.  Guppy  observes,  as  he  takes 
the  snuffers  in  hand. 

"  Is  it  ? "  returns  his  friend.  "  Not  so  easily  as  you 
think.  It  has  been  smouldering  like  that,  ever  since  it  was 
lighted." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Tony  ?  "  inquires  Mr. 
Guppy,  looking  at  him,  snuffers  in  hand,  as  he  sits  down  with 
his  elbow  on  the  table. 

"  William  Guppy,"  replies  the  other,  "  I  am  in  the  Downs. 
It's  this  unbearably  dull,  suicidal  room  —  and  old  Boguey 
down-stairs,  I  suppose."  Mr.  Weevle  moodily  pushes  the 
snuffers-tray  from  him  with  his  elbow,  leans  his  head  on  his 
hand,  puts  his  feet  on  the  fender,  and  looks  at  the  fire.  Mr. 
Guppy,  observing  him,  slightly  tosses  his  head,  and  sits  down 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table  in  an  easy  attitude. 

"  Wasn't  that  Snagsby  talking  to  you,  Tony  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  7 

"  Yes,  and  be  yes,  it  was  Snagsby,"  says  Mr.  Weevle, 

altering  the  construction  of  his  sentence. 
"  On  business  ?  " 

"No.  No  business.  He  was  only  sauntering  by,  and  stopped 
to  prose." 

"I  thought  it  was  Snagsby/'  says  Mr.  Guppy,  "and  thought 
it  as  well  that  he  shouldn't  see  me,  so  I  waited  till  he  was 
gone." 

"  There  we  go  again,  William  G.  ! 99  cries  Tony,  looking  up 
for  an  instant.  "  So  mysterious  and  secret !  By  George,  if 
we  were  going  to  commit  a  murder,  we  couldn't  have  more 
mystery  about  it !  " 

Mr.  Guppy  affects  to  smile ;  and  with  the  view  of  changing 
the  conversation,  looks  with  an  admiration,  real  or  pretended, 
round  the  room  at  the  Galaxy  gallery  of  British  beauty,  termi- 
nating his  survey  with  the  portrait  of  Lady  Dedlock  over  the 
mantel-shelf,  in  which  she  is  represented  on  a  terrace,  with  a 
pedestal  upon  the  terrace,  and  a  vase  upon  the  pedestal,  and 
her  shawl  upon  the  vase,  and  a  prodigious  piece  of  fur  upon 
the  shawl,  and  her  arm  on  the  prodigious  piece  of  fur,  and  a 
bracelet  on  her  arm. 

"  That's  very  like  Lady  Dedlock,"  says  Mr.  Guppy.  "  It's 
a  speaking  likeness." 

"I  wish  it  was,"  growls  Tony,  without  changing  his  posi- 
tion. "I  should  have  some  fashionable  conversation  here, 
then." 

Finding,  by  this  time,  that  his  friend  is  not  to  be  wheedled 
into  a  more  sociable  humor,  Mr.  Guppy  puts  about  upon  the 
ill-used  tack,  and  remonstrates  with  him. 

"Tony,"  says  he,  "I  can  make  allowances  for  lowness  of 
spirits,  for  no  man  knows  what  it  is  when  it  does  come  upon 
a  man,  better  than  I  do ;  and  no  man  perhaps  has  a  better 
right  to  know  it,  than  a  man  who  has  an  unrequited  image 
imprinted  on  his  art.  But  there  are  bounds  to  these  things 
when  an  unoffending  party  is  in  question,  and  I  will  acknowl- 
edge to  you,  Tony,  that  I  don't  think  your  manner  on  the 
present  occasion  is  hospitable  or  quite  gentlemanly." 

"This  is  strong  language,  William  Guppy,"  returns  Mr. 
Weevle. 


8 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Sir,  it  may  be,"  retorts  Mr.  William  Guppy,  "  but  I  feel 
strongly  when  I  use  it." 

Mr.  Weevle  admits  that  he  has  been  wrong,  and  begs  Mr. 
William  Guppy  to  think  no  more  about  it.  Mr.  William  Guppy, 
however,  having  got  the  advantage,  cannot  quite  release  it  with- 
out a  little  more  injured  remonstrance. 

"No!  Dash  it,  Tony,"  says  that  gentleman,  "you  really 
ought  to  be  careful  how  you  wound  the  feelings  of  a  man, 
who  has  an  unrequited  image  imprinted  on  his  art,  and  who 
is  not  altogether  happy  in  those  chords  which  vibrate  to  the 
tenderest  emotions.  You,  Tony,  possess  in  yourself  all  that 
is  calculated  to  charm  the  eye,  and  allure  the  taste.  It  is  not 
—  happily  for  you,  perhaps,  and  I  may  wish  that  I  could  say 
the  same  —  it  is  not  your  character  to  hover  around  one  flower. 
The  ole  garden  is  open  to  you,  and  your  airy  pinions  carry  you 
through  it.  Still,  Tony,  far  be  it  from  me,  I  am  sure,  to  wound 
even  your  feelings  without  a  cause  ! " 

Tony  again  entreats  that  the  subject  may  be  no  longer 
pursued,  saying  emphatically,  William  Guppy,  drop  it ! " 
Mr.  Guppy  acquiesces,  with  the  reply,  "  I  never  should  have 
taken  it  up,  Tony,  of  my  own  accord." 

"And  now,"  says  Tony,  stirring  the  fire,  "touching  this 
same  bundle  of  letters.  Isn't  it  an  extraordinary  thing  of 
Krook  to  have  appointed  twelve  o'clock  to-night  to  hand  'em 
over  to  me  ?  " 

"  Very.    What  did  he  do  it  for  ?  " 

"  What  does  he  do  anything  for  ?  He  don't  know.  Said, 
to-day  was  his  birthday,  and  he'd  hand  'em  over  to-night  at 
twelve  o'clock.  He'll  have  drunk  himself  blind  by  that  time. 
He  has  been  at  it  all  day." 

"  He  hasn't  forgotten  the  appointment,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Forgotten?  Trust  him  for  that.  He  never  forgets  any- 
thing. I  saw  him  to-night,  about  eight  —  helped  him  to  shut 
up  his  shop  —  and  he  had  got  the  letters  then  in  his  hairy 
cap.  He  pulled  it  off,  and  showed  'em  me.  When  the  shop 
was  closed,  he  took  them  out  of  his  cap,  hung  his  cap  on  the 
chair-back,  and  stood  turning  them  over  before  the  fire.  I 
heard  him  a  little  while  afterwards  through  the  floor  here, 
humming,  like  the  wind,  the  only  song  he  knows  —  about 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


9 


Bibo,  and  old  Charon,  and  Bibo  being  drunk  when  he  died, 
or  something  or  other.  He  has  been  as  quiet,  since,  as  an  old 
rat  asleep  in  his  hole." 

"  And  you  are  to  go  down  at  twelve  ?  " 

"  At  twelve.  And,  as  I  tell  you,  when  you  came  it  seemed 
to  me  a  hundred." 

"  Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  after  considering  a  little  with  his 
legs  crossed,  "he  can't  read  yet,  can  he  ?" 

"  Read !  He'll  never  read.  He  can  make  all  the  letters 
separately,  and  he  knows  most  of  them  separately  when  he  sees 
them ;  he  has  got  on  that  much,  under  me ;  but  he  can't  put 
them  together.  He's  too  old  to  acquire  the  knack  of  it  now 
—  and  too  drunk." 

"Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  uncrossing  and  recrossing  his 
legs ;  "  how  do  you  suppose  he  spelt  out  that  name  of 
Hawdon  ?  " 

"  He  never  spelt  it  out.  You  know  what  a  curious  power 
of  eye  he  has,  and  how  he  has  been  used  to  employ  himself  in 
copying  things  by  eye  alone.  He  imitated  it — evidently  from 
the  direction  of  a  letter ;  and  asked  me  what  it  meant." 

"Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  uncrossing  and  recrossing  his 
legs  again;  "should  you  say  that  the  original  was  a  man's 
writing  or  a  woman's  ?  " 

"  A  woman's.  Fifty  to  one  a  lady's  —  slopes  a  good  deal, 
and  the  end  of  the  letter  <n,'  long  and  hasty." 

Mr.  Guppy  has  been  biting  his  thumb-nail  during  this 
dialogue,  generally  changing  the  thumb  when  he  has  changed 
the  crossed  leg.  As  he  is  going  to  do  so  again,  he  happens 
to  look  at  his  coat-sleeve.  It  takes  his  attention.  He  stares 
at  it,  aghast. 

"Why,  Tony,  what  on  earth  is  going  on  in  this  house 
to-night  ?    Is  there  a  chimney  on  fire  ?  " 
"  Chimney  on  fire  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  returns  Mr.  Guppy.  "  See  how  the  soot's  falling. 
See  here,  on  my  arm  !  See  again,  on  the  table  here !  Con- 
found the  stuff,  it  won't  blow  off  —  smears,  like  black  fat ! " 
,  They  look  at  one  another,  and  Tony  goes  listening  to  the 
door,  and  a  little  way  up-stairs,  and  a  little  way  down-stairs. 
Comes  back,  and  says  it's  all  right ;  and  all  quiet ;  and  quotes 


10  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

the  remark  he  lately  made  to  Mr.  Snagsby,  about  their  cook- 
ing chops  at  the  Sol's  Arms. 

"And  it  was  then/'  resumes  Mr.  Guppy,  still  glancing 
with  remarkable  aversion  at  his  coat-sleeve,  as  they  pursue 
their  conversation  before  the  fire,  leaning  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  table,  with  their  heads  very  near  together,  "that  he  told 
you  of  his  having  taken  the  bundle  of  letters  from  his  lodger's 
portmanteau  ?  " 

"That  was  the  time,  sir,"  answers  Tony,  faintly,  adjusting 
his  whiskers.  "  Whereupon  I  wrote  a  line  to  my  dear  boy, 
the  Honorable  William  Guppy,  informing  him  of  the  appoint 
ment  for  to-night,  and  advising  him  not  to  call  before  :  Boguey 
being  a  Slyboots." 

The  light  vivacious  tone  of  fashionable  life  which  is  usually 
assumed  by  Mr.  Weevle,  sits  so  ill  upon  him  to-night,  that  he 
abandons  that  and  his  whiskers  together ;  and,  after  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  appears  to  yield  himself  up,  a  prey  to  the 
horrors  again. 

"You  are  to  bring  the  letters  to  your  room  to  read  anc 
compare,  and  to  get  yourself  into  a  position  to  tell  him  aV 
about  them.  That's  the  arrangement,  isn't  it,  Tony  ?  "  ask 
Mr.  Guppy,  anxiously  biting  his  thumb-nail. 

"You  can't  speak  too  low.    Yes.    That's  what  he  and 
agreed." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Tony  "  — 

"You  can't  speak  too  low,"  says  Tony  once  more.  Mr 
Guppy  nods  his  sagacious  head,  advances  it  yet  closer,  and'j 
drops  into  a  whisper. 

"  I  tell  you  what.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  is,  to  make! 
another  packet  like  the  real  one ;  so  that,  if  he  should  ask 
to  see  the  real  one  while  it's  in  my  possession,  you  can  show 
him  the  dummy." 

"  And  suppose  he  detects  the  dummy  as  soon  as  he  sees 
it —  which  with  his  biting  screw  of  an  eye  is  about  five 
hundred  times  more  likely  than  not,"  suggests  Tony. 

"  Then  we'll  face  it  out.  They  don't  belong  to  him,  and 
they  never  did.  You  found  that;  and  you  placed  them  in 
my  hands  — a  legal  friend  of  yours  — for  security.  If  he 
forces  us  to  it,  they'll  be  producible,  won't  they  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


11 


"Ye-es,"  is  Mr.  Weevle's  reluctant  admission. 

"  Why,  Tony/'  remonstrates  his  friend,  "  how  yon  louk  ! 
You  don't  doubt  William  Guppy  ?  You  don't  suspect  any 
harm  ?  " 

"I  don't  suspect  anything  more  than  I  know,  William/' 
returns  the  other  gravely. 

"And  what  do  you  know?"  urges  Mr.  Guppy,  raising  his 
voice  a  little ;  but  on  his  friend's  once  more  warning  him,  "  I 
tell  you,  you  can't  speak  too  low,"  he  repeats  his  question 
without  any  sound  at  all;  forming  with  his  lips  only  the 
words,  "  What  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I  know  three  things.  First,  I  know  that  here  we  are 
whispering  in  secrecy  ;  a  pair  of  conspirators." 

"Well!"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  "and  we  had  better  be  that, 
than  a  pair  of  noodles,  which  we  should  be,  if  we  were  doing 
anything  else ;  for  it's  the  only  way  of  doing  what  we  want 
to  do.    Secondly  ?  " 

"Secondly,  it's  not  made  out  to  me  how  it's  likely  to  be 
profitable,  after  all." 

Mr.  Guppy  casts  up  his  eyes  at  the  portrait  of  Lady 
Dedlock  over  the  mantel-shelf,  and  replies,  "  Tony,  you  are 
asked  to  leave  that  to  the  honor  of  your  friend.  Besides  its 
being  calculated  to  serve  that  friend,  in  those  chords  of  the 
human  mind  which  —  which  need  not  be  called  into  agonizing 
vibration  on  the  present  occasion  —  your  friend  is  no  fool. 
WThat's  that  ?  " 

"It's  eleven  o'clock  striking  by  the  bell  of  Saint  Paul's. 
Listen,  and  you'll  hear  all  the  bells  in  the  city  jangling." 

Both  sit  silent,  listening  to  the  metal  voices,  near  and 
distant,  resounding  from  towers  of  various  heights,  in  tones 
more  various  than  their  situations.  When  these  at  length 
cease,  all  seems  more  mysterious  and  quiet  than  before.  One 
disagreeable  result  of  whispering  is,  that  it  seems  to  evoke 
an  atmosphere  of  silence,  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  sound 
—  strange  cracks  and  tickings,  the  rustling  of  garments 
that  have  no  substance  in  them,  and  the  tread  of  dread- 
ful feet,  that  would  leave  no  mark  on  the  sea-sand  or 
the  winter  snow.  So  sensitive  the  two  friends  happen  to 
be,  that  the  air  is  full  of  these  phantoms ;  and  the  two 


12 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


look  over  their  shoulders  by  one  consent,  to  see  that  the  door 
is  shut. 

"  Yes,  Tony  ?"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  drawing  nearer  to  the  fire, 
and  biting  his  unsteady  thumb-nail.  "  You  were  going  to  say, 
thirdly  ?  " 

"  It's  far  from  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  plotting  about  a  dead 
man  in  the  room  where  he  died,  especially  when  you  happen 
to  live  in  it." 

"But  we  are  plotting  nothing  against  him,  Tony." 

"  May-be  not,  still  I  don't  like  it.  Live  here  by  yourself, 
and  see  how  you  like  it." 

"As  to  dead  men,  Tony,"  proceeds  Mr.  Guppy,  evading 
this  proposal,  "  there  have  been  dead  men  in  most  rooms." 

"  I  know  there  have ;  but  in  most  rooms  you  let  them 
alone,  and  —  and  they  let  you  alone,"  Tony  answers. 

The  two  look  at  each  other  again.  Mr.  Guppy  makes  a 
hurried  remark  to  the  effect  that  they  may  be  doing  the 
deceased  a  service ;  that  he  hopes  so.  There  is  an  oppressive 
blank,  until  Mr.  Weevle,  by  stirring  the  fire  suddenly,  makes 
Mr.  Guppy  start  as  if  his  heart  had  been  stirred  instead. 

"  Fah !  Here's  more  of  this  hateful  soot  hanging  about," 
says  he.  "  Let  us  open  the  window  a  bit,  and  get  a  mouthful 
of  air.    It's  too  close." 

He  raises  the  sash,  and  they  both  rest  on  the  window-sill, 
half  in  and  half  out  of  the  room.  The  neighboring  houses 
are  too  near,  to  admit  of  their  seeing  any  sky  without  craning 
their  necks  and  looking  up ;  but  lights  in  frowsy  windows 
here  and  there,  and  the  rolling  of  distant  carriages,  and  the 
new  expression  that  there  is  of  the  stir  of  men,  they  find  to 
be  comfortable.  Mr.  Guppy,  noiselessly  tapping  on  the 
window-sill,  resumes  his  whispering  in  quite  a  light-comedy 
tone. 

"By-the-by,  Tony,  don't  forget  old  Smallweed;"  meaning 
the  Younger  of  that  name.  "I  have  not  let  him  into  this, 
you  know.  That  grandfather  of  his  is  too  keen  by  half.  It 
runs  in  the  family." 

"  I  remember,"  says  Tony.    "  I  am  up  to  all  that." 

"And  as  to  Krook,"  resumes  Mr.  Guppy.  "Now,  do  you 
suppose  he  really  has  got  hold  of  any  other  papers  of  impor- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


13 


tance,  as  he  has  boasted  to  you,  since  you  have  been  such 
allies?" 

Tony  shakes  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  Can't  imagine. 
If  we  get  through  this  business  without  rousing  his  sus- 
picions, I  shall  be  better  informed  no  doubt.  How  can  I 
know  without  seeing  them,  when  he  don't  know  himself? 
He  is  always  spelling  out  words  from  them,  and  chalking 
them  over  the  table  and  the  shop-wall,  and  asking  what 
this  is,  and  what  that  is ;  but  his  whole  stock,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  may  easily  be  the  waste  paper  he  bought  it 
as,  for  anything  I  can  say.  It's  a  monomania  with  him, 
to  think  he  is  possessed  of  documents.  He  has  been  going  to 
learn  to  read  them  this  last  quarter  of  a  century,  I  should 
judge,  from  what  he  tells  me." 

"  How  did  he  first  come  by  that  idea,  though  ?  that's  the 
question,"  Mr.  Guppy  suggests  with  one  eye  shut,  after  a 
little  forensic  meditation.  "  He  may  have  found  papers  in 
something  he  bought,  where  papers  were  not  supposed  to  be ; 
and  may  have  got  it  into  his  shrewd  head,  from  the  manner 
and  place  of  their  concealment,  that  they  are  worth  something." 

"  Or  he  may  have  been  taken  in,  in  some  pretended  bar- 
gain. Or  he  may  have  been  muddled  altogether,  by  long 
staring  at  whatever  he  has  got,  and  by  drink,  and  by  hanging 
about  the  Lord  Chancellor's  court  and  hearing  of  documents 
forever,"  returns  Mr.  Weevle. 

Mr.  Guppy  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  nodding  his  head 
and  balancing  all  these  possibilities  in  his  mind,  continues 
thoughtfully  to  tap  it,  and  clasp  it,  and  measure  it  with  his 
hand,  until  he  hastily  draws  his  hand  away. 

"  What,  in  the  Devil's  name,"  he  says,  "  is  this  ?  Look  at 
my  fingers  ! " 

A  thick,  yellow  liquor  denies  them,  which  is  offensive  to 
the  touch  and  sight,  and  more  offensive  to  the  smell.  A 
stagnant,  sickening  oil,  with  some  natural  repulsion  in  it  that 
makes  them  both  shudder. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  here  ?  What  have  you  been 
pouring  out  of  window  ?  " 

"  I  pouring  out  of  window !  Nothing,  I  swear !  Never, 
since  I  have  been  here  ! "  cries  the  lodger. 


14 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


And  yet  look  here  —  and  look  here  !  When  he  brings  the 
candle  here,  from  the  corner  of  the  window-sill,  it  slowly 
drips,  and  creeps  away  down  the  bricks ;  here,  lies  in  a  little 
thick  nauseous  pool. 

"  This  is  a  horrible  house,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  shutting  down 
the  window.  "  Give  me  some  water,  or  I  shall  cut  my  hand 
off." 

He  so  washes,  and  rubs,  and  scrubs,  and  smells  and 
washes,  that  he  has  not  long  restored  himself  with  a  glass 
of  brandy,  and  stood  silently  before  the  fire,  when  Saint 
Paul's  bell  strikes  twelve,  and  all  those  other  bells  strike 
twelve  from  their  towers  of  various  heights  in  the  dark  air, 
and  in  their  many  tones.  When  all  is  quiet  again,  the 
lodger  says,  — 

"  It's  the  appointed  time  at  last.    Shall  I  go  ?  " 

Mr.  Guppy  nods,  and  gives  him  a  "  lucky  touch  "  on  the 
back ;  but  not  with  the  washed  hand,  though  it  is  his  right 
hand. 

He  goes  down-stairs  ;  and  Mr.  Guppy  tries  to  compose 
himself,  before  the  fire,  for  waiting  a  long  time.  But  in  no 
more  than  a  minute  or  two  the  stairs  creak,  and  Tony  comes 
swiftly  back. 

"  Have  you  got  them  ? 99 

"  Got  them  !    No.    The  old  man's  not  there." 

He  has  been  so  horribly  frightened  in  the  short  interval, 
that  his  terror  seizes  the  other,  who  makes  a  rush  at  him,  and 
asks  loudly,  "  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  make  him  hear,  and  I  softly  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in.  And  the  burning  smell  is  there  —  and  the 
soot  is  there,  and  the  oil  is  there  —  and  he  is  not  there  ! "  — 
Tony  ends  this  with  a  groan. 

Mr.  Guppy  takes  the  light.  They  go  down,  more  dead 
than  alive,  and  holding  one  another,  push  open  the  door  of 
the  back  shop.  The  cat  has  retreated  close  to  it,  and  stands 
snarling  —  not  at  them;  at  something  on  the  ground,  before 
the  fire.  There  is  very  little  fire  left  in  the  grate,  but  there 
is  a  smouldering  suffocating  vapor  in  the  room,  and  a  dark 
greasy  coating  on  the  walls  and  ceiling.  The  chairs  and 
table,  and  the  bottle  so  rarely  absent  from  the  table,  all 


THE  APPOINTED  TIME. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


15 


stand  as  usual.  On  one  chair-back,  hang  the  old  man's  hairy 
cap  and  coat. 

"  Look  ! "  whispers  the  lodger,  pointing  his  friend's  atten- 
tion to  these  objects  with  a  trembling  finger.  "I  told  you 
so.  When  I  saw  him  last,  he  took  his  cap  off,  took  out  the 
little  bundle  of  old  letters,  hung  his  cap  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  —  his  coat  was  there  already,  for  he  had  pulled  that  off, 
before  he  went  to  put  the  shutters  up  —  and  I  left  him  turn- 
ing the  letters  over  in  his  hand,  standing  just  where  that 
crumbled  black  thing  is  upon  the  floor." 

Is  he  hanging  somewhere  ?    They  look  up.  No. 

"  See  ! "  whispers  Tony.  "  At  the  foot  of  the  same  chair, 
there  lies  a  dirty  bit  of  thin  red  cord  that  they  tie  up  pens 
with.  That  went  round  the  letters.  He  undid  it  slowly, 
leering  and  laughing  at  me,  before  he  began  to  turn  them 
over,  and  threw  it  there.    I  saw  it  fall." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  cat?"  says  Mr.  Guppy. 
"  Look  at  her  !  " 

"Mad,  I  think.    And  no  wonder,  in  this  evil  place." 

They  advance  slowly,  looking  at  all  these  things.  The  cat 
remains  where  they  found  her,  still  snarling  at  the  something 
on  the  ground,  before  the  fire  and  between  the  two  chairs. 
What  is  it  ?    Hold  up  the  light. 

Here  is  a  small  burnt  patch  of  flooring ;  here  is  the  tinder 
from  a  little  bundle  of  burnt  paper,  but  not  so  light  as  usual, 
seeming  to  be  steeped  in  something;  and  here  is  —  is  it  the 
cinder  of  a  small  charred  and  broken  log  of  wood  sprinkled 
with  white  ashes,  or  is  it  coal  ?  0  Horror,  he  is  here !  and 
this  from  which  we  run  away,  striking  out  the  light  and 
overturning  one  another  into  the  street,  is  all  that  represents 
him. 

Help,  help,  help !  come  into  this  house  for  Heaven's 
sake  ! 

Plenty  will  come  in,  but  none  can  help.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor of  that  Court,  true  to  his  title  in  his  last  act,  has  died 
the  death  of  all  Lord  Chancellors  in  all  Courts,  and  of  all 
authorities  in  all  places  under  all  names  soever,  where  false 
pretences  are  made,  and  where  injustice  is  done.  Call  the 
death  by  any  name  Your  Highness  will,  attribute  it  to  whom 


16 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


you  will,  or  say  it  might  have  been  prevented  how  you  will,  it 
is  the  same  death  eternally  —  inborn,  inbred,  engendered  in 
the  corrupted  humors  of  the  vicious  body  itself,  and  that 
only  —  Spontaneous  Combustion,  and  none  other  of  all  the 
deaths  that  can  be  died. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


17 


CHAPTER  II. 

INTERLOPERS. 

Now  do  those  two  gentlemen  not  very  neat  about  the  cuffs 
and  buttons  who  attended  the  last  Coroner's  Inquest  at  the 
Sol's  Arms,  reappear  in  the  precincts  with  surprising  swiftness 
(being,  in  fact,  breathlessly  fetched  by  the  active  and  intel- 
ligent beadle),  and  institute  perquisitions  through  the  court, 
and  dive  into  the  Sol's  parlor,  and  write  with  ravenous  little 
pens  on  tissue  paper.  Now  do  they  note  down,  in  the  watches 
of  the  night,  how  the  neighborhood  of  Chancery  Lane  was 
yesterday,  at  about  midnight,  thrown  into  a  state  of  the  most 
intense  agitation  and  excitement  by  the  following  alarming 
and  horrible  discovery.  Now  do  they  set  forth  how  it  will 
doubtless  be  remembered,  that  some  time  back  a  painful 
sensation  was  created  in  the  public  mind,  by  a  case  of 
mysterious  death  from  opium  occurring  in  the  first  floor  of 
the  house  occupied  as  a  rag,  bottle,  and  general  marine  store 
shop,  by  an  eccentric  individual  of  intemperate  habits,  far 
advanced  in  life,  named  Krook ;  and  how,  by  a  remarkable 
coincidence,  Krook  was  examined  at  the  inquest,  which  it 
may  be  recollected  was  held  on  that  occasion  at  the  Sol's 
Arms,  a  well-conducted  tavern,  immediately  adjoining  the 
premises  in  question,  on  the  west  side,  and  licensed  to  a 
highly  respectable  landlord,  Mr.  James  George  Bogsby. 
Now  do  they  show  (in  as  many  words  as  possible),  how 
during  some  hours  of  yesterday  evening  a  very  peculiar 
smell  was  observed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  court,  in  which 
the  tragical  occurrence  which  forms  the  subject  of  that  present 
account  transpired;  and  which  odor  was  at  one  time  so 
powerful,  that  Mr.  Swills,  a  comic  vocalist,  professionally 
engaged  by  Mr.  J.  G.  Bogsby,  has  himself  stated  to  our 
reporter  that  he  mentioned  to  Miss  M.  Melvilleson,  a  lady  of 

VOL.  II, 


18 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


some  pretensions  to  musical  ability,  likewise  engaged  by  Mr. 
J.  G.  Bogsby  to  sing  at  a  series  of  concerts  called  Harmonic 
Assemblies  or  Meetings,  which  it  would  appear  are  held  at 
the  SoFs  Arms,  under  Mr.  Bogsby's  direction,  pursuant  to  the 
Act  of  George  the  Second,  that  he  (Mr.  Swills)  found  his 
voice  seriously  affected  by  the  impure  state  of  the  atmosphere ; 
his  jocose  expression,  at  the  time,  being,  "that  he  was  like 
an  empty  post-office,  for  he  hadn't  a  single  note  in  him." 
How  this  account  of  Mr.  Swills  is  entirely  corroborated  by 
two  intelligent  married  females  residing  in  the  same  court, 
and  known  respectively  by  the  names  of  Mrs.  Piper  and  Mrs. 
Perkins ;  both  of  whom  observed  the  fetid  effluvia,  and 
regarded  them  as  being  emitted  from  the  premises  in  the 
occupation  of  Krook,  the  unfortunate  deceased.  All  this  and 
a  great  deal  more,  the  two  gentlemen,  who  have  formed  an 
amicable  partnership  in  the  melancholy  catastrophe,  write 
down  on  the  spot ;  and  the  boy  population  of  the  court  (out 
of  bed  in  a  moment)  swarm  up  the  shutters  of  the  Sol's  Arms 
parlor,  to  behold  the  tops  of  their  heads  while  they  are 
about  it. 

The  whole  court,  adult  as  well  as  boy,  is  sleepless  for  that 
night,  and  can  do  nothing  but  wrap  up  its  many  heads,  and 
talk  of  the  ill-fated  house,  and  look  at  it.  Miss  Flite  has 
been  bravely  rescued  from  her  chamber,  as  if  it  were  in 
flames,  and  accommodated  with  a  bed  at  the  Sol's  Arms.  The 
Sol  neither  turns  off  its  gas  nor  shuts  its  door,  all  night ;  for 
any  kind  of  public  excitement  makes  good  for  the  Sol,  and 
causes  the  court  to  stand  in  need  of  comfort.  The  house  has  not 
done  so  much  in  the  stomachic  article  of  cloves,  or  in  brandy 
and  water  warm,  since  the  Inquest.  The  moment  the  potboy 
heard  what  had  happened,  he  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves  tight 
to  his  shoulders,  and  said,  "  There'll  be  a  run  upon  us  ! " 
In  the  first  outcry,  Young  Piper  dashed  off  for  the  fire- 
engines  ;  and  returned  in  triumph  at  a  jolting  gallop,  perched 
up  aloft  on  the  Phoenix,  and  holding  on  to  that  fabulous 
creature  with  all  his  might,  in  the  midst  of  helmets  and 
torches.  One  helmet  remains  behind,  after  careful  inves- 
tigation of  all  chinks  and  crannies ;  and  slowly  paces  up 
and  down  before  the  house,  in  company  with  one  of  the 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


19 


two  policemen  who  have  been  likewise  left  in  charge  thereof. 
To  this  trio,  everybody  in  the  court,  possessed  of  sixpence, 
has  an  insatiate  desire  to  exhibit  hospitality  in  a  liquid 
form. 

Mr.  Weevle  and  his  friend  Mr.  Guppy  are  within  the  bar 
at  the  Sol,  and  are  worth  anything  to  the  Sol  that  the  bar 
contains,  if  they  will  only  stay  there.  "  This  is  not  a  time/' 
says  Mr.  Bogsby,  "  to  haggle  about  money,"  though  he  looks 
something  sharply  after  it  over  the  counter;  "give  your 
orders,  you  two  gentlemen,  and  you're  welcome  to  whatever 
you  put  a  name  to." 

Thus  entreated,  the  two  gentlemen  (Mr.  Weevle  especially) 
put  names  to  so  many  things,  that  in  course  of  time  they  find 
it  difficult  to  put  a  name  to  anything  quite  distinctly ;  though 
they  still  relate,  to  all  new-comers,  some  version  of  the  night 
they  have  had  of  it,  and  of  what  they  said,  and  what  they 
thought,  and  what  they  saw.  Meanwhile,  one  or  other  of  the 
policemen  often  flits  about  the  door,  and  pushing  it  open  a 
little  way  at  the  full  length  of  his  arm,  looks  in  from  outer 
gloom.  Not  that  he  has  any  suspicions,  but  that  he  may  as 
well  know  what  they  are  up  to  in  there. 

Thus,  night  pursues  its  leaden  course  ;  finding  the  court 
still  out  of  bed  through  the  unwonted  hours,  still  treating  and 
being  treated,  still  conducting  itself  similarly  to  a  court  that 
has  had  a  little  money  left  it  unexpectedly.  Thus,  night  at 
length  with  slow-retreating  steps  departs,  and  the  lamplighter 
going  his  rounds,  like  an  executioner  to  a  despotic  king, 
strikes  off  the  little  heads  of  fire  that  have  aspired  to  lessen 
the  darkness.    Thus,  the  day  cometh,  wrhether  or  no. 

And  the  day  may  discern,  even  with  its  dim  London  eye, 
that  the  court  has  been  up  all  night.  Over  and  above  the 
faces  that  have  fallen  drowsily  on  tables,  and  the  heels  that 
lie  prone  on  hard  floors  instead  of  beds,  the  brick  and  mortar 
physiognomy  of  the  very  court  itself  looks  worn  and  jaded. 
And  now  the  neighborhood  waking  up,  and  beginning  to 
hear  of  what  has  happened,  comes  streaming  in,  half  dressed, 
to  ask  questions ;  and  the  two  policemen  and  the  helmet  (who 
are  far  less  impressible  externally  than  the  court)  have  enough 
to  do  to  keep  the  door. 


20 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Good  gracious,  gentlemen!"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  coming 
up.    "  What's  this  I  hear  !  " 

"  Why,  it's  true,"  returns  one  of  the  policemen.    "  That's 
what  it  is.    Now  move  on  here,  come  !  " 

"Why,  good  gracious,   gentlemen,"  says   Mr.   Snagsby,  | 
somewhat  promptly  backed  away,  "I  was  at  this  door  last 
night  betwixt  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  in  conversation  with  the 
young  man  who  lodges  here." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  returns  the  policeman.  "  You  will  find  the 
young  man  next  door,  then.  Now  move  on  here,  some  of 
you." 

"  Not  hurt,  I  hope  ?  "  says  Mr.  Snagsby. 
"  Hurt  ?    No.    What's  to  hurt  him  !  " 

Mr.  Snagsby,  wholly  unable  to  answer  this,  or  any  other 
question,  in  his  troubled  mind,  repairs  to  the  Sol's  Arms,  and , 
finds  Mr.  Weevle  languishing  over  tea  and  toast;  with  a 
considerable  expression  on  him  of  exhausted  excitement,  and 
exhausted  tobacco-smoke. 

"And  Mr.  Guppy  likewise!"  quoth  Mr.  Snagsby.  "Dear,' 
dear,  dear  !  What  a  fate  there  seems  in  all  this  !  And  my; 
lit—  " 

Mr.  Snagsby's  power  of  speech  deserts  him  in  the  formation 
of  the  words  "my  little  woman."  For,  to  see  that  injured' 
female  walk  into  the  Sol's  Arms  at  that  hour  of  the  morning; 
and  stand  before  the  beer-engine,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon5 
him  like  an  accusing  spirit,  strikes  him  dumb. 

"  My  dear,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  when  his  tongue  is  loosened,! 
"  will  you  take  anything  ?    A  little  —  not  to  put  too  fine 
point  upon  it  —  drop  of  shrub  ?  " 

"No,"  says  Mrs.  Snagsby. 

«  My  love,  you  know  these  two  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  says  Mrs.  Snagsby  ;  and  in  a  rigid  manner 
acknowledges  their  presence,  still  fixing  Mr.  Snagsby  with 
her  eye. 

The  devoted  Mr.  Snagsby  cannot  bear  this  treatment.  He 
takes  Mrs.  Snagsby  by  the  hand,  and  leads  her  aside  to  an 
adjacent  cask. 

"  My  little  woman,  why  do  you  look  at  me  in  that  way  ? 
Pray  don't  do  it." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


21 


"  I  can't  help  my  looks/'  says  Mrs.  Snagsby,  "  and  if  I 
could  I  wouldn't." 

Mr.  Snagsby  with  his  cough  of  meekness,  rejoins,  — 
"  Wouldn't  you  really,  my  dear  ?  "  and  meditates.  Then 
coughs  his  cough  of  trouble,  and  says,  "This  is  a  dreadful 
mystery,  my  love  ! "  still  fearfully  disconcerted  by  Mrs. 
Snagsby's  eye. 

"  It  is"  returns  Mrs.  Snagsby,  shaking  her  head,  "  a  dread- 
ful mystery." 

"My  little  woman,"  urges  Mr.  Snagsby,  in  a  piteous 
manner,  "don't  for  goodness  sake,  speak  to  me  with  that 
bitter  expression,  and  look  at  me  in  that  searching  way  !  I 
beg  and  entreat  of  you  not  to  do  it.  Good  lord,  you  don't 
suppose  that  I  would  go  spontaneously  combusting  any  per- 
son, my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,"  returns  Mrs.  Snagsby. 

On  a  hasty  review  of  his  unfortunate  position,  Mr.  Snagsby 
"can't  say,"  either.  He  is  not  prepared  positively  to  deny 
that  he  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He  has  had 
something  —  he  don't  know  what  —  to  do  with  so  much  in  this 
connection  that  is  mysterious,  that  it  is  possible  he  may  even 
be  implicated,  without  knowing  it,  in  the  present  transaction. 
He  faintly  wipes  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
gasps. 

"  My  life,"  says  the  unhappy  stationer,  "  would  you  have 
any  objections  to  mention  why,  being  in  general  so  delicately 
circumspect  in  your  conduct,  you  come  into  a  Wine  Vaults 
before  breakfast  ?  " 

"Why  do  you  come  here  ?"  inquires  Mrs.  Snagsby. 

"  My  dear,  merely  to  know  the  rights  of  the  fatal  accident 
which  has  happened  to  the  venerable  party  who  has  been  — 
combusted."  Mr.  Snagsby  has  made  a  pause  to  suppress  a 
groan.  "  I  should  then  have  related  them  to  you,  my  love, 
over  your  French  roll." 

"  I  dare  say  you  would.  You  relate  everything  to  me,  Mr. 
Snagsby." 

"Every —  my  lit—?" 

"I  should  be  glad,"  says  Mrs.  Snagsby,  after  contem- 
plating his  increased  confusion  with  a  severe  and  sinister 


22 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


smile,  "  if  you  would  come  home  with  me  ;  I  think  you  may 
be  safer  there,  Mr.  Snagsby,  than  anywhere  else." 

"  My  love,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  may  be,  I  am  sure.  I 
am  ready  to  go." 

Mr.  Snagsby  casts  his  eyes  forlornly  round  the  bar,  gives 
Messrs.  Weevle  and  Guppy  good-morning,  assures  them  of 
the  satisfaction  with  which  he  sees  them  uninjured,  and 
accompanies  Mrs.  Snagsby  from  the  Sol's  Arms.  Before  night 
his  doubt  whether  he  may  not  be  responsible  for  some  in- 
conceivable part  in  the  catastrophe  which  is  the  talk  of  the 
whole  neighborhood,  is  almost  resolved  into  certainty  by 
Mrs.  Snagsby's  pertinacity  in  that  fixed  gaze.  His  mental 
sufferings  are  so  great,  that  he  entertains  wandering  ideas  of 
delivering  himself  up  to  justice,  and  requiring  to  be  cleared, 
if  innocent,  and  punished  with  the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law, 
if  guilty. 

Mr.  Weevle  and  Mr.  Guppy,  having  taken  their  breakfast, 
step  into  Lincoln's  Inn  to  take  a  little  walk  about  the  square, 
and  clear  as  many  of  the  dark  cobwebs  out  of  their  brains  as 
a  little  walk  may. 

"There  can  be  no  more  favorable  time  than  the  present, 
Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  after  they  have  broodingly  made  out 
the  four  sides  of  the  square,  "  for  a  word  or  two  between  us, 
upon  a  point  on  which  we  must,  with  very  little  delay,  come 
to  an  understanding." 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,  William  G  ! "  returns  the  other, 
eying  his  companion  with  a  bloodshot  eye.  "  If  it's  a  point 
of  conspiracy,  you  needn't  take  the  trouble  to  mention  it.  I 
have  had  enough  of  that,  and  I  ain't  going  to  have  any  more. 
We  shall  have  you  taking  fire  next,  or  blowing  up  with  a 
bang." 

This  suppositious  phenomenon  is  so  very  disagreeable  to 
Mr.  Guppy  that  his  voice  quakes,  as  he  says  in  a  moral  way, 
"  Tony,  I  should  have  thought  that  what  we  went  through 
last  night,  would  have  been  a  lesson  to  you  neyer  to  be 
personal  any  more  as  long  as  you  lived."  To  which  Mr. 
Weevle  returns,  "  William,  I  should  have  thought  it  would 
have  been  a  lesson  to  you  never  to  conspire  any  more  as  long 
as  you  lived."    To  which  Mr.  Guppy  says,  "  Who's  con spir- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


23 


ing?"  To  which  Mr.  Jobling  replies,  "Why,  you  are!" 
To  which  Mr.  Guppy  retorts,  "No,  I  am  not."  To  which 
Mr.  Jobling  retorts  again,  "  Yes,  you  are ! "  To  which  Mr. 
Guppy  retorts,  "Who  says  so?"  To  which  Mr.  Jobling 
retorts,  "  I  say  so  ! "  To  which  Mr.  Guppy  retorts,  "  Oh, 
indeed!"  To  which  Mr.  Jobling  retorts,  "Yes,  indeed!" 
And  both  being  now  in  a  heated  state,  they  walk  on  silently 
for  a  while,  to  cool  down  again. 

"Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  then,  "if  you  heard  your  friend 
out,  instead  of  flying  at  him,  you  wouldn't  fall  into  mistakes. 
But  your  temper  is  hasty,  and  you  are  not  considerate.  Pos- 
sessing in  yourself,  Tony,  all  that  is  calculated  to  charm  the 
eye"  — 

"  Oh  !  Blow  the  eye ! "  cries  Mr.  Weevle,  cutting  him 
short.    "  Say  what  you  have  got  to  say  ! " 

Finding  his  friend  in  this  morose  and  material  condition, 
Mr.  Guppy  only  expresses  the  finer  feelings  of  his  soul  through 
the  tone  of  injury  in  which  he  recommences, — 

"  Tony,  when  I  say  there  is  a  point  on  which  we  must  come 
to  an  understanding  pretty  soon,  I  say  so  quite  apart  from  any 
conspiring,  however  innocent.  You  know  it  is  professionally 
arranged  beforehand,  in  all  cases  that  are  tried,  what  facts  the 
witnesses  are  to  prove.  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  desirable  that  we 
should  know  what  facts  we  are  to  prove,  on  the  inquiry  into 
the  death  of  this  unfortunate  old  Mo  —  gentleman  ?  "  (Mr. 
Guppy  was  going  to  say,  Mogul,  but  thinks  gentleman  better 
suited  to  the  circumstances.) 

"  What  facts  ?    The  facts." 

"  The  facts  bearing  on  that  inquiry.  Those  are  "  —  Mr. 
Guppy  tells  them  off  on  his  fingers  —  "what  we  knew  of  his 
habits  ;  when  you  saw  him  last ;  what  his  condition  was  then  ; 
the  discovery  that  we  made ;  and  how  we  made  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Weevle.    "Those  are  about  the  facts." 

"  We  made  the  discovery,  in  consequence  of  his  having,  in 
his  eccentric  way,  an  appointment  with  you  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  when  you  were  to  explain  some  writing  to  him,  as 
you  had  often  done  before,  on  account  of  his  not  being  able  to 
read.  I,  spending  the  evening  with  you,  was  called  down  — 
and  so  forth.    The  inquiry  being  only  into  the  circumstances 


24 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


touching  the  death  of  the  deceased,  it's  not  necessary  to  go 
beyond  these  facts,  I  suppose  you'll  agree  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  returns  Mr.  Weevle.    "  I  suppose  not." 

"And  this  is  not  a  conspiracy,  perhaps  ?"  says  the  injured 
Guppy. 

"  No,"  returns  his  friend ;  "  if  it's  nothing  worse  than  this, 
I  withdraw  the  observation." 

"Now,  Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  taking  his  arm  again,  and 
walking  him  slowly  on,  "  I  should  like  to  know,  in  a  friendly 
way,  whether  you  have  yet  thought  over  the  many  advantages 
of  your  continuing  to  live  at  that  place  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  Tony,  stopping. 

"  Whether  you  have  yet  thought  over  the  many  advantages 
of  your  continuing  to  live  at  that  place  ?  "  repeats  Mr.  Guppy, 
walking  him  on  again. 

"At  what  place  ?  That  place  ?  "  pointing  in  the  direction; 
of  the  rag  and  bottle  shop. 

Mr.  Guppy  nods. 

"  Why,  I  wouldn't  pass  another  night  there,  for  any  consid- 
eration that  you  could  offer  me,"  says  Mr.  Weevle  haggardly 
staring. 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  though,  Tony  ?  " 

"Mean  it!  Do  I  look  as  if  I  mean  it?  I  feel  as  if  I 
do;  I  know  that,"  says  Mr.  Weevle,  with  a  very  genuine 
shudder. 

"Then  the  possibility  or  probability  —  for  such  it  must  bei 
considered  —  of  your  never  being  disturbed  in  possession  of 
those  effects,  lately  belonging  to  a  lone  old  man  who  seemed  J 
to  have  no  relation  in  the  world;  and  the  certainty  of  your> 
being  able  to  find  out  what  he  really  had  got  stored  up  there ; 
don't  weigh  with  you  at  all  against  last  night,  Tony,  if  I  under- 
stand you?"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  biting  his  thumb  with  the 
appetite  of  vexation. 

"  Certainly  not.  Talk  in  that  cool  way  of  a  fellow's  living 
there  ?  "  cries  Mr.  Weevle,  indignantly.  "  Go  and  live  there 
yourself." 

"Oh  !  I,  Tony  !"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  soothing  him.  "I  have 
never  lived  there,  and  couldn't  get  a  lodging  there  now; 
whereas  you  have  got  one." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


25 


"You  are  welcome  to  it,"  rejoins  his  friend,  "and  —  ugh! 
—  you  may  make  yourself  at  home  in  it." 

"  Then  you  really  and  truly  at  this  point,"  says  Mr.  Guppy, 
"  give  up  the  whole  thing,  if  I  understand  you,  Tony  ?  " 

"  You  never,"  returns  Tony,  with  a  most  convincing  stead- 
fastness, "  said  a  truer  word  in  all  your  life.    I  do  !  " 

While  they  are  so  conversing,  a  hackney-coach  drives  into 
the  square,  on  the  box  of  which  vehicle  a  very  tall  hat  makes 
itself  manifest  to  the  public.  Inside  the  coach,  and  conse- 
quently not  so  manifest  to  the  multitude,  though  sufficiently 
so  to  the  two  friends,  for  the  coach  stops  almost  at  their  feet, 
are  the  venerable  Mr.  Smallweed  and  Mrs.  Smallweed,  accom- 
panied by  their  granddaughter  Judy.  An  air  of  haste  and 
excitement  pervades  the  party  ;  and  as  the  tall  hat  (surmount- 
ing Mr.  Smallweed  the  younger)  alights,  Mr.  Smallweed  the 
elder  pokes  his  head  out  of  window,  and  bawls  to  Mr.  Guppy, 
"  How  de  do,  sir  !    How  de  do  ! " 

"What  do  Chick  and  his  family  want  here  at  this  time  of 
the  morning,  I  wonder ! "  says  Mr.  Guppy,  nodding  to  his 
familiar. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cries  Grandfather  Smallweed,  "  would  you 
do  me  a  favor?  Wrould  you  and  your  friend  be  so  very 
obleeging  as  to  carry  me  into  the  public-house  in  the  court, 
while  Bart  and  his  sister  bring  their  grandmother  along  ? 
Would  you  do  an  old  man  that  good  turn,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Guppy  looks  at  his  friend,  repeating  inquiringly,  "the 
public-house  in  the  court  ?  "  And  they  prepare  to  bear  the 
venerable  burden  to  the  Sol's  Arms. 

"  There's  your  fare  ! "  says  the  Patriarch  to  the  coachman 
with  a  fierce  grin,  and  shaking  his  incapable  fist  at  him. 
"Ask  me  for  a  penny  more,  and  I'll  have  my  lawful  revenge 
upon  you.  My  dear  young  men,  be  easy  with  me,  if  you 
please.  Allow  me  to  catch  you  round  the  neck.  I  won't 
squeeze  you  tighter  than  I  can  help.  Oh  Lord  !  Oh  dear  me  ! 
Oh  my  bones  !  " 

It  is  well  that  the  Sol  is  not  far  off,  for,  Mr.  Weevle  presents 
an  apoplectic  appearance  before  half  the  distance  is  accom- 
plished. With  no  worse  aggravation  of  his  symptoms,  how- 
ever, than  the  utterance  of  divers  croaking  sounds,  expressive 


2G 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


of  obstructive  respiration,  he  fulfils  his  share  of  the  porterage, 
and  the  benevolent  old  gentleman  is  deposited  by  his  own 
desire  in  the  parlor  of  the  Sol's  Arms. 

"  Oh  Lord ! "  gasps  Mr.  Smallweed,  looking  about  him, 
breathless,  from  an  arm-chair.  "  Oh  dear  me  !  Oh  my  bones 
and  back  !  Oh  my  aches  and  pains  !  Sit  down,  you  dancing, 
prancing,  shambling,  scrambling  poll-parrot !    Sit  down  !  " 

This  little  apostrophe  to  Mrs.  Smallweed  is  occasioned  by  a 
propensity  on  the  part  of  that  unlucky  old  lady,  whenever 
she  finds  herself  on  her  feet,  to  amble  about,  and  "  set "  to 
inanimate  objects,  accompanying  herself  with  a  chattering 
noise,  as  in  a  witch-dance.  A  nervous  affection  has  probably 
as  much  to  do  with  these  demonstrations,  as  any  imbecile 
intention  in  the  poor  old  woman ;  but  on  the  present  occasion 
they  are  so  particularly  lively  in  connection  with  the  Windsor 
arm-chair,  fellow  to  that  in  which  Mr.  Smallweed  is  seated, 
that  she  only  quite  desists  when  her  grandchildren  have  held 
her  down  in  it :  her  lord  in  the  mean  while  bestowing  upon 
her,  with  great  volubility,  the  endearing  epithet  of  a  "  pig- 
headed Jackdaw,"  repeated  a  surprising  number  of  times. 

"My  dear  sir,"  Grandfather  Smallweed  then  proceeds, 
addressing  Mr.  Guppy,  "  there  has  been  a  calamity  here. 
Have  you  heard  of  it,  either  of  you  ?  " 

"Heard  of  it,  sir !    Why  we  discovered  it." 

"You  discovered  it.  You  two  discovered  it!  Bart,  they 
discovered  it ! " 

The  two  discoverers  stare  at  the  Smallweeds,  who  return; 
the  compliment. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  whines  Grandfather  Smallweed,  put-; 
ting  out  both  his  hands,  "I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks  for' 
discharging  the  melancholy  office  of  discovering  the  ashes  of 
Mrs.  Smallweed's  brother." 

"  Eh  ?  "  says  Mr.  Guppy. 

"Mrs.  Smallweed's  brother,  my  dear  friend  —  her  only 
relation.  We  were  not  on  terms,  which  is  to  be  deplored 
now,  but  he  never  would  be  on  terms.  He  was  not  fond  of 
us.  He  was  eccentric  —  he  was  very  eccentric.  Unless  he 
has  left  a  will  (which  is  not  at  all  likely)  I  shall  take  out 
letters  of  administration.    I  have  come  down  to  look  after 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


27 


the  property ;  it  must  be  sealed  up,  it  must  be  protected.  I 
have  come  down/'  repeats  Grandfather  Smallweed,  hooking 
the  air  towards  him  with  all  his  ten  fingers  at  once,  "to  look 
after  the  property." 

"  I  think,  Small,"  says  the  disconsolate  Mr.  Guppy,  "  you 
might  have  mentioned  that  the  old  man  was  your  uncle." 

"  You  two  were  so  close  about  him  that  I  thought  you 
would  like  me  to  be  the  same,"  returns  that  old  bird,  with  a 
secretly  glistening  eye.    "  Besides,  I  wasn't  proud  of  him." 

"  Besides  which,  it  was  nothing  to  you,  you  know,  whether 
he  was  or  not,"  says  Judy.    Also  with  a  secretly  glistening  eye. 

"  He  never  saw  me  in  his  life,  to  know  me,"  observed 
Small ;  "  I  don't  know  why  I  should  introduce  him,  I  am 
sure  ! " 

"  No,  he  never  communicated  with  us  —  which  is  to  be 
deplored,"  the  old  gentleman  strikes  in ;  "  but  I  have  come 
to  look  after  the  property  —  to  look  over  the  papers,  and  to 
look  after  the  property.  We  shall  make  good  our  title.  It 
is  in  the  hands  of  my  solicitor.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields,  over  the  way  there,  is  so  good  as  to  act  as  my 
solicitor ;  and  grass  don't  grow  under  his  feet,  I  can  tell  ye. 
Krook  was  Mrs.  Smallweed's  only  brother ;  she  had  no 
relation  but  Krook,  and  Krook  had  no  relation  but  Mrs. 
Small  weed.  I  am  speaking  of  your  brother,  you  brimstone 
blackbeetle,  that  was  seventy-six  years  of  age." 

Mrs.  Smallweed  instantly  begins  to  shake  her  head,  and 
pipe  up,  "  Seventy-six  pound  seven  and  sevenpence  !  Seventy- 
six  thousand  bags  of  money !  seventy-six  hundred  thousand 
million  of  parcels  of  bank-notes  ! " 

"Will  somebody  give  me  a  quart  pot?"  exclaims  her 
exasperated  husband,  looking  helplessly  about  him,  and  find- 
ing no  missile  within  his  reach.  "  Will  somebody  obleege  me 
with  a  spittoon  ?  Will  somebody  hand  me  anything  hard 
and  bruising  to  pelt  at  her  ?  You  hag,  you  cat,  you  dog,  you 
brimstone  barker ! "  Here  Mr.  Smallweed,  wrought  up  to 
the  highest  pitch  by  his  own  eloquence,  actually  throws  Judy 
at  her  grandmother  in  default  of  anything  else,  by  butting 
that  young  virgin  at  the  old  lady  with  such  force  as  he  can 
muster,  and  then  dropping  into  his  chair  in  a  heap. 


28 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Shake  me  up,  somebody,  if  you'll  be  so  good,"  says  the 
voice  from  within  the  faintly  struggling  bundle  into  which  he 
has  collapsed.  "  I  have  come  to  look  after  the  property 
Shake  me  up;  and  call  in  the  police  on  duty  at  the  next 
house,  to  be  explained  to  about  the  property.  My  solicitor 
will  be  here  presently  to  protect  the  property.  Transporta- 
tion or  the  gallows  for  anybody  who  shall  touch  the  property !  1 
As  his  dutiful  grandchildren  set  him  up,  panting,  and  putting 
him  through  the  usual  restorative  process  of  shaking  and 
punching,  he  still  repeats  like  an  echo,  "  the  —  the  property ! 
the  property  !  —  property  !  " 

Mr.  Wee  vie  and  Mr.  Guppy  look  at  each  other ;  the  former 
as  having  relinquished  the  whole  affair ;  the  latter  with  a  ! 
discomfited  countenance,  as  having  entertained  some  lingering 
expectations  yet.    But  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  Smallweed  interest.    Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  clerk' 
comes  down  from  his  official  pew  in  the  chambers,  to  mention 
to  the  police  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  is  answerable  for  its  being ' 
all  correct  about  the  next  of  kin,  and  that  the  papers  and  i 
effects  will  be  formally  taken  possession  of  in  due  time  and  [ 
course.   Mr.  Smallweed  is  at  once  permitted  so  far  to  assert  his 
supremacy  as  to  be  carried  on  a  visit  of  sentiment  into  the  ' 
next  house,  and  up-stairs  into  Miss  Flite's  deserted  room, 
where  he  looks  like  a  hideous  bird  of  prey  newly  added  to  « 
her  aviary. 

The  arrival  of  this  unexpected  heir  soon  taking  wind  in  } 
the  court,  still  makes  good  for  the  Sol,  and  keeps  the  court 
upon  its  mettle.    Mrs.  Piper  and  Mrs.  Perkins  think  it  hard  I 
upon  the  young  man  if  there  really  is  no  will,  and  consider  ' 
that  a  handsome  present  ought  to  be  made  him  out  of  the 
estate.    Young  Piper  and  Young  Perkins,  as  members  of  that 
restless  juvenile  circle  which  is  the  terror  of  the  foot-passen- 
gers in  Chancery  Lane,  crumble  into  ashes  behind  the  pump 
and  under  the  archway,  all  day  long ;  where  wild  yells  and 
hootings  take  place  over  their  remains.    Little  Swills  and 
Miss  M.  Melvilleson  entered  into  affable  conversation  with 
their  patrons,  feeling  that  these  unusual  occurrences  level  the 
barriers  between  professionals  and  non-professionals.  Mr. 
Bogsby  puts  up  "  The  popular  song  of  King  Death  !  with 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


29 


chorus  by  the  whole  strength  of  the  company/'  as  the  great 
Harmonic  feature  of  the  week  ;  and  announces  in  the  bill 
that  "  J.  G.  B.  is  induced  to  do  so  at  a  considerable  extra 
expense,  in  consequence  of  a  wish  which  has  been  very  gener- 
ally expressed  at  the  bar  by  a  large  body  of  respectable 
individuals  and  in  homage  to  a  late  melancholy  event  which 
has  aroused  so  much  sensation."  There  is  one  point  connected 
with  the  deceased,  upon  which  the  court  is  particularly 
anxious ;  namely,  that  the  fiction  of  a  full-sized  coffin  should 
be  preserved,  though  there  is  so  little  to  put  in  it.  Upon  the 
undertaker's  stating  in  the  Sol's  bar  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
that  he  has  received  orders  to  construct  "  a  six-footer,"  the 
general  solicitude  is  much  relieved,  and  it  is  considered  that 
Mr.  Smallweed's  conduct  does  him  great  honor. 

Out  of  the  court,  and  a  long  way  out  of  it,  there  is  consid- 
erable excitement  too ;  for  men  of  science  and  philosophy 
come  to  look,  and  carriages  set  down  doctors  at  the  corner 
who  arrive  with  the  same  intent,  and  there  is  more  learned 
talk  about  inflammable  gases  and  phosphuretted  hydrogen 
than  the  court  has  ever  imagined.  Some  of  these  authorities 
(of  course  the  wisest)  hold  with  indignation  that  the  deceased 
had  no  business  to  die  in  the  alleged  manner;  and  being 
reminded  by  other  authorities  of  a  certain  inquiry  into  the 
evidence  for  such  deaths,  reprinted  in  the  sixth  volume  of 
the  Philosophical  Transactions ;  and  also  of  a  book  not  quite 
unknown,  on  English  Medical  Jurisprudence ;  and  likewise 
of  the  Italian  case  of  the  Countess  Cornelia  Baudi  as  set  forth 
in  detail  by  one  Bianchini,  prebendary  of  Verona,  who  wrote 
a  scholarly  work  or  so,  and  was  occasionally  heard  of  in  his 
time  as  having  gleams  of  reason  in  him  ;  and  also  of  the 
testimony  of  Messrs  Fodere  and  Mere,  two  pestilent  French- 
men who  would  investigate  the  subject;  and  further,  of  the 
corroborative  testimony  of  Monsieur  Le  Cat,  a  rather  cele- 
brated French  surgeon  once  upon  a  time,  who  had  the  impolite- 
ness to  live  in  a  house  where  such  a  case  occurred,  and  even 
to  write  an  account  of.  it ;  —  still  they  regard  the  late  Mr. 
Krook's  obstinacy,  in  going  out  of  the  world  by  any  such 
byway,  as  wholly  unjustifiable  and  personally  offensive.  The 
less  the  court  understands  of  all  this,  the  more  the  court 


30 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


likes  it;  and  the  greater  enjoyment  it  has  in  the  stock  in 
trade  of  the  Sol's  Arms.  Then,  there  comes  the  artist  of  a 
picture  newspaper,  with  a  foreground  and  figures  ready  drawn 
for  anything,  from  a  wreck  on  the  Cornish  coast  to  a  review 
in  Hyde  Park,  or  a  meeting  at  Manchester,  —  and  in  Mrs. 
Perkins's  own  room,  memorable  evermore,  he  then  and  there 
throws  in  upon  the  block,  Mr.  Krook's  house,  as  large  as  life ; 
in  fact  considerably  larger,  making  a  very  Temple  of  it. 
Similarly,  being  permitted  to  look  in  at  the  door  of  the  fatal 
chamber,  he  depicts  that  apartment  as  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  long,  by  fifty  yards  high ;  at  which  the  court  is  particu- 
larly charmed.  All  this  time,  the  two  gentlemen  before 
mentioned  pop  in  and  out  of  every  house,  and  assist  at  the 
philosophical  disputations  —  go  everywhere,  and  listen  to 
everybody,  —  and  yet  are  always  diving  into  the  Sol's  parlor, 
and  writing  with  the  ravenous  little  pens  on  the  tissue  paper.  ; 

At  last  come  the  coroner  and  his  inquiry,  like,  as  before,  ! 
except  that  the  coroner  cherishes  this  case  as  being  out  of  the  < 
common  way,  and  tells  the  gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  in  his 
private  capacity,  that  "  that  would  seem  to  be  an  unlucky  t 
house  next  door,  gentlemen,  a  destined  house;  but  so  we' 
sometimes  find  it,  and  these  are  mysteries  we  can't  account  | 
for!"  After  which  the  six-footer  comes  into  action,  and  is. 
much  admired. 

In  all  these  proceedings  Mr.  Guppy  has  so  slight  a  part,,; 
except  when  he  gives  his  evidence,  that  he  is  moved  on  like  ay 
private  individual,  and  can  only  haunt  the  secret  house  on  the'j 
outside ;  where  he  has  the  mortification  of  seeing  Mr.  Small-,! 
weed  padlocking  the  door,  and  of  bitterly  knowing  himself? 
to  be  shut  out.    But  before  these  proceedings  draw  to  a 
close,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  night  next  after  the  catastrophe, 
Mr.  Guppy  has  a  thing  to  say  that  must  be  said  to  Lady 
Dedlock. 

For  which  reason,  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  writh  that 
hangdog  sense  of  guilt  upon  him,  which  dread  and  watching, 
enfolded  in  the  Sol's  Arms,  have  produced,  the  young  man  of 
the  name  of  Guppy  presents  himself  at  the  town  mansion  at 
about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  and  requests  to  see  her 
ladyship.    Mercury  replies  that  she  is  going  out  to  dinner.; 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


31 


don't  lie  see  the  carriage  at  the  door  ?  Yes,  he  does  see  the 
carriage  at  the  door ;  but  he  wants  to  see  my  lady  too. 

Mercury  is  disposed,  as  he  will  presently  declare  to  a  fellow 
gentleman  in  waiting,  "  to  pitch  into  the  young  man  ; "  but 
his  instructions  are  positive.  Therefore  he  sulkily  supposes 
that  the  young  man  must  come  up  into  the  library.  There  he 
leaves  the  young  man  in  a  large  room,  not  over-light,  while 
he  makes  report  of  him. 

Mr.  Guppy  looks  into  the  shade  in  all  directions,  discovering 
everywhere  a  certain  charred  and  whitened  little  heap  of  coal 
or  wood.  Presently  he  hears  a  rustling.  Is  it  ?  —  No,  it's 
no  ghost ;  but  fair  flesh  and  blood,  most  brilliantly  dressed. 

"I  have,  to  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,"  Mr.  Guppy  stam- 
mers, very  downcast.    "This  is  an  inconvenient  time"  — 

"I  told  you,  you  could  come  at  any  time."  She  takes  a 
chair,  looking  straight  at  him  as  on  the  last  occasion. 

"  Thank  your  ladyship.    Your  ladyship  is  very  affable." 

"  You  can  sit  down."  There  is  not  much  affability  in  her 
tone. 

"I  don't  know,  your  ladyship,  that  it's  worth  while  my 
sitting  down  and  detaining  you,  for  I  —  I  have  not  got  the 
letters  that  I  mentioned  when  I  had  the  honor  of  waiting  on 
your  ladyship." 

"  Have  you  come  merely  to  say  so  ?  " 

"Merely  to  say  so,  your  ladyship."  Mr.  Guppy  besides 
being  depressed,  disappointed,  and  uneasy,  is  put  at  a  further 
disadvantage  by  the  splendor  and  beauty  of  her  appearance. 
She  knows  its  influence  perfectly ;  has  studied  it  too  well  to 
miss  a  grain  of  its  effect  on  any  one.  As  she  looks  at  him  so 
steadily  and  coldly,  he  not  only  feels  conscious  that  he  has  no 
guide,  in  the  least  perception  of  what  is  really  the  complexion 
of  her  thoughts  ;  but  also  that  he  is  being  every  moment,  as  it 
were,  removed  further  and  further  from  her. 

She  will  not  speak  it  is  plain.    Sq  he  must. 

"  In  short,  your  ladyship,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  like  a  meanly 
penitent  thief,  "the  person  I  was  to  have  had  the  letters  of, 
has  come  to  a  sudden  end,  and" —  He  stops.  Lady  Dedlock 
calmly  finishes  the  sentence. 

"  And  the  letters  are  destroyed  with  the  person  ?  " 


32 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Mr.  Guppy  would  say  no,  if  he  could  —  as  he  is  unable  to 
hide. 

"  I  believe  so,  your  ladyship." 

If  he  could  see  the  least  sparkle  of  relief  in  her  face  now  ? 
No,  he  could  see  no  such  thing,  even  if  that  brave  outside  did 
not  utterly  put  him  away,  and  he  were  not  looking  beyond  it 
and  about  it. 

He  falters  an  awkward  excuse  or  two  for  his  failure. 
"  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  ? "  inquires  Lady  Dedlock, 
having  heard  him  out  —  or  as  nearly  out  as  he  can  stumble. 
Mr.  Guppy  thinks  that's  all. 

"You  had  better  be  sure  that  you  wish  to  say  nothing 
more  to  me ;  this  being  the  last  time  you  will  have  the 
opportunity." 

Mr.  Guppy  is  quite  sure.    And  indeed  he  has  no  such  wish 
at  present,  by  any  means. 

"That  is  enough.    I  will  dispense  with  excuses.  Good- 
evening  to  you ! "  and  she  rings  for  Mercury  to  show  the  ] 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Guppy  out. 

But  in  that  house,  in  that  same  moment,  there  happens  to  ? 
be  an  old  man  of  the  name  of  Tulkinghorn.    And  that  old  [ 
man,  coming  with  his  quiet  footstep  to  the  library,  has  his 
hand  at  that  moment  on  the  handle  of  the  door  —  comes  in  — 
and  comes  face  to  face  with  the  young  man  as  he  is  leaving 
the  room. 

One  glance  between  the  old  man  and  the  lady ;  and  for  an  I 
instant  the  blind  that  is  always  down  flies  up.  Suspicion,  { 
eager  and  sharp,  looks  out.    Another  instant ;  close  again. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Dedlock.    I  beg  your  pardon  a  1 
thousand  times.    It  is  so  very  unusual  to  find  you  here  at 
this  hour.    I  supposed  the  room  was  empty.    I  beg  your 
pardon ! " 

"Stay!"  She  negligently  calls  him  back.  "Eemain  here, 
I  beg.  I  am  going  out  to  dinner.  I  have  nothing  more  to 
say  to  this  young  man  ! w 

The  disconcerted  young  man  bows,  as  he  goes  out,  and 
cringingly  hopes  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  of  the  Fields  is 
well. 

"Ay,  ay  ?"  says  the  lawyer,  looking  at  him  from  under  his 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  NAME  OF  TULKINGHORM. 


UBHAKY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


33 


bent  brows ;  though  he  has  no  need  to  look  again  —  not  he. 
"From  Kenge  and  Carboy's,  surely  ?" 

"Kenge  and  Carboy's,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  Name  of  Guppy 
sir." 

"To  be  sure.  Why,  thank  you,  Mr.  Guppy,  I  am  very 
well ! " 

"  Happy  to  hear  it,  sir.    You  can't  be  too  well,  sir,  for  the 
credit  of  the  profession." 
"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Guppy  !  " 

Mr.  Guppy  sneaks  away.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  such  a  foil  in 
his  old-fashioned  rusty  black  to  Lady  Dedlock's  brightness, 
hands  her  down  the  staircase  to  her  carriage.  He  returns 
rubbing  his  chin,  and  rubs  it  a  good  deal  in  the  course  of  the 
evening. 


VOL.  II. 


34 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  TURN  OF  THE  SCREW. 

"  Now,  what,"  says  Mr.  George,  "  may  this  be  ?  Is  it  blank 
cartridge,  or  ball  ?    A  flash  in  the  pan,  or  a  shot  ?  " 

An  open  letter  is  the  subject  of  the  trooper's  speculations, 
and  it  seems  to  perplex  him  mightily.  He  looks  at  it  at  arm's 
length,  brings  it  close  to  him,  holds  it  in  his  right  hand,  holds 
it  in  his  left  hand,  reads  it  with  his  head  on  this  side,  with 
his  head  on  that  side,  contracts  his  eyebrows,  elevates  them ; 
still,  cannot  satisfy  himself.  He  smooths  it  out  upon  the 
table  with  his  heavy  palm,  and  thoughtfully  walking  up  and 
down  the  gallery,  makes  a  halt  before  it  every  now  and  then, 
to  come  upon  it  with  a  fresh  eye.  Even  that  won't  do.  "  Is 
it,"  Mr.  George  muses,  "  blank  cartridge  or  ball  ?  " 

Phil  Squod,  with  the  aid  of  a  brush  and  paint-pot,  is 
employed  in  the  distance  whitening  the  targets ;  softly 
whistling,  in  quick-march  time,  and  in  drum-and-fife  manner, 
that  he  must  and  he  will  go  back  again  to  the  girl  he  left 
behind  him. 

"  Phil ! "    The  trooper  beckons  as  he  calls  him. 

Phil  approaches  in  his  usual  way ;  sidling  off  at  first  as  if 
he  were  going  anywhere  else,  and  then  bearing  down  upon  his 
commander  like  a  bayonet-charge.    Certain  splashes  of  white 
show  in  high  relief  upon  his  dirty  face,  and  he  scrapes  his  on 
eyebrow  with  the  handle  of  his  brush. 

"  Attention,  Phil !    Listen  to  this." 

"  Steady,  commander,  steady." 

" 6  Sir.  Allow  me  to  remind  you  (though  there  is  no  legal 
necessity  for  my  doing  so,  as  you  are  aware)  that  the  bill  at 
two  months'  date,  drawn  on  yourself  by  Mr.  Matthew  Bagnet, 
and  by  you  accepted,  for  the  sum  of  ninety-seven  pounds  four 
shillings  and  ninepence,  will  become  due  to-morrow,  when  yo 


i 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


35 


will  please  be  prepared  to  take  up  the  same  on  presentation, 
Yours,  Joshua  Small  weed.'  —  What  do  you  make  of  that. 
Phil  ?  " 

"Mischief,  guv'ner." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  think/'  replies  Phil,  after  pensively  tracing  out  a  cross- 
wrinkle  in  his  forehead  with  the  brush-handle,  .  "  that  mis- 
cheevious  consequences  is  always  meant  when  money's  asked 
for." 

"Lookye,  Phil,"  says  the  trooper,  sitting  on  the  table. 
"  First  and  last,  I  have  paid,  I  may  say,  half  as  much  again 
as  this  principal,  in  interest  and  one  thing  and  another." 

Phil  intimates,  by  sidling  back  a  pace  or  two,  with  a  very 
unaccountable  wrench  of  his  wry  face,  that  he  does  not  regard 
the  transaction  as  being  made  more  promising  by  this  incident. 

"And  lookye  further,  Phil,"  says  the  trooper,  staying  his 
premature  conclusions  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  There  has 
always  been  an  understanding  that  this  bill  was  to  be  what 
they  call  Eenewed.  And  it  has  been  renewed,  no  end  of  times. 
What  do  you  say  now  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  I  think  the  times  is  come  to  an  end  at  last." 

"You  do  ?    Humph !    I  am  much  of  the  same  mind  myself." 

"Joshua  Smallweed  is  him  that  was  brought  here  in  a 
chair  ?  " 

"The  same." 

"Guv'ner,"  says  Phil,  with  exceeding  gravity,  "he's  a  leech 
in  his  dispositions,  he's  a  screw  and  a  wise  in  his  actions,  a 
snake  in  his  twistings,  and  a  lobster  in  his  claws." 

Having  thus  expressively  uttered  his  sentiments,  Mr.  Squod, 
after  waiting  a  little  to  ascertain  if  any  further  remark  be 
expected  of  him,  gets  back,  by  his  usual  series  of  movements, 
to  the  target  he  has  in  hand ;  and  vigorously  signifies,  through 
his  former  musical  medium,  that  he  must  and  he  will  return 
to  that  ideal  young  lady.  George  having  folded  the  letter, 
walks  in  that  direction. 

"There  is  a  way,  commander,"  says  Phil,  looking  cunningly 
at  him,  "of  settling  this." 

"Paying  the  money,  I  suppose.    I  wish  I  could." 

Phil  shakes  his  head.    "  No,  guv'ner,  no ;  not  so  bad  as  that. 


36 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


There  is  a  way/'  says  Phil,  with  a  highly  artistic  turn  of  his 
brush  —  "  what  I'm  a-doing  at  present." 

"  Whitewashing." 

Phil  nods. 

"  A  pretty  way  that  would  be  !  Do  you  know  what  would 
become  of  the  Bagnets  in  that  case  ?  Do  you  know  they 
would  be  ruined  to  pay  off  my  old  scores  ?  YouWe  a  moral 
character/'  says  the  trooper,  eying  him  in  his  large  way  with 
no  small  indignation,  "  upon  my  life  you  are,  Phil ! " 

Phil,  on  one  knee  at  the  target,  is  in  course  of  protesting 
earnestly,  though  not  without  many  allegorical  scoops  of  his 
brush,  and  smoothings  of  the  white  surface  round  the  rim  with 
his  thumb,  that  he  had  forgotten  the  Bagnet  responsibility, 
and  would  not  so  much  as  injure  a  hair  of  the  head  of  any 
member  of  that  worthy  family,  when  steps  are  audible  in  the 
long  passage  without,  and  a  cheerful  voice  is  heard  to  wonder 
whether  George  is  at  home.  Phil,  with  a  look  at  his  master, 
hobbles  up,  saying,  "  Here's  the  guv'ner,  Mrs.  Bagnet !  Here 
he  is  ! "  and  the  old  girl  herself,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Bagnet, 
appears. 

The  old  girl  never  appears  in  walking  trim,  in  any  season 
of  the  year,  without  a  gray  cloth  cloak,  coarse  and  much  worn 
but  very  clean,  which  is,  undoubtedly,  the  identical  garment 
rendered  so  interesting  to  Mr.  Bagnet  by  having  made  its  way 
home  to  Europe  from  another  quarter  of  the  globe,  in  company 
with  Mrs.  Bagnet  and  an  umbrella.  The  latter  faithful  append- 
age is  also  invariably  a  part  of  the  old  girl's  presence  out  of 
doors.  It  is  of  no  color  known  in  this  life,  and  has  a  corru- 
gated wooden  crook  for  a  handle,  with  a  metallic  object  let 
into  its  prow  or  beak,  resembling  a  little  model  of  a  fan-light 
over  a  street  door,  or  one  of  the  oval  glasses  out  of  a  pair  of 
spectacles :  which  ornamental  object  has  not  that  tenacious 
capacity  of  sticking  to  its  post  that  might  be  desired  in  an 
article  long  associated  with  the  British  army.  The  old  girl's 
umbrella  is  of  a  flabby  habit  of  waist,  and  seems  to  be  in  need 
of  stays  —  an  appearance  that  is  possibly  referable  to  its  having 
served,  through  a  series  of  years,  at  home  as  a  cupboard,  and 
on  journeys  as  a  carpet-bag.  She  never  puts  it  up,  having  the 
greatest  reliance  on  her  well-proved  cloak  with  its  capacious 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


37 


hood ;  but  generally  uses  the  instrument  as  a  wand  with  which 
to  point  out  joints  of  meat  or  bunches  of  greens  in  marketing, 
or  to  arrest  the  attention  of  tradesmen  by  a  friendly  poke.  With- 
out her  market-basket,  which  is  a  sort  of  wicker  well  with  two 
flapping  lids,  she  never  stirs  abroad.  Attended  by  these  her 
trusty  companions,  therefore,  her  honest  sunburnt  face  look- 
ing cheerily  out  of  a  rough  straw  bonnet,  Mrs.  Bagnet  now 
arrives,  fresh-colored  and  bright,  in  George's  Shooting  Gallery. 

"  Well,  George,  old  fellow/'  says  she,  "  and  how  do  you  do, 
this  sunshiny  morning  ?  " 

Giving  him  a  friendly  shake  of  the  hand,  Mrs.  Bagnet  draws 
a  long  breath  after  her  walk,  and  sits  down  to  enjoy  a  rest. 
Having  a  faculty,  matured  on  the  tops  of  baggage-wagons,  and 
in  other  such  positions,  of  resting  easily  anywhere,  she  perches 
on  a  rough  bench,  unties  her  bonnet-strings,  pushes  back  her 
bonnet,  crosses  her  arms,  and  looks  perfectly  comfortable. 

Mr.  Bagnet,  in  the  mean  time,  has  shaken  hands  with  his  old 
comrade,  and  with  Phil :  on  whom  Mrs.  Bagnet  likewise  bestows 
a  good-humored  nod  and  smile. 

"Now,  George,"  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  briskly,  "here  we  are, 
Lignum  and  myself ;  "  she  often  speaks  of  her  husband  by  this 
appellation,  on  account,  as  it  is  supposed,  of  Lignum  Vitae 
having  been  his  old  regimental  nickname  when  they  first 
became  acquainted,  in  compliment  to  the  extreme  hardness 
and  toughness  of  his  physiognomy  ;  "just  looked  in,  we  have, 
to  make  it  all  correct  as  usual  about  that  security.  Give  him 
the  new  bill  to  sign,  George,  and  he'll  sign  it  like  a  man." 

"  I  was  coming  to  you,  this  morning,"  observes  the  trooper, 
reluctantly. 

"  Yes,  we  thought  you'd  come  to  us  this  morning,  but  we 
turned  out  early,  and  left  Woolwich,  the  best  of  boys,  to  mind 
his  sisters,  and  came  to  you  instead  —  as  you  see  !  For  Lignum, 
he's  tied  so  close  now,  and  gets  so  little  exercise,  that  a  walk 
does  him  good.  But  what's  the  matter,  George  ?  "  asks  Mrs. 
Bagnet,  stopping  in  her  cheerful  talk.  "  You  don't  look  your- 
self." 

"  I  am  not  quite  myself,"  returns  the  trooper ;  "  I  have  been 
a  little  put  out,  Mrs.  Bagnet." 

Her  bright  quick  eye  catches  the  truth  directly.    "  George  ! " 


38 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


holding  up  her  forefinger.  "Don't  tell  me  there's  anything 
wrong  about  that  security  of  Lignum's  !  Don't  do  it,  George, 
on  account  of  the  children  !  " 

The  trooper  looks  at  her  with  a  troubled  visage. 

"  George/'  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  using  both  her  arms  for  empha- 
sis, and  occasionally  bringing  down  her  open  hands  upon  her 
knees.  "  If  you  have  allowed  anything  wrong  to  come  to  that 
security  of  Lignum's,  and  if  you  have  let  him  in  for  it,  and  if 
you  have  put  us  in  danger  of  being  sold  up  —  and  I  see  sold 
up  in  your  face,  George,  as  plain  as  print  —  you  have  done  a 
shameful  action,  and  have  deceived  us  cruelly.  I  tell  you, 
cruelly,  George.    There  ! " 

Mr.  Bagnet,  otherwise  as  immovable  as  a  pump  or  a  lamp- 
post, puts  his  large  right  hand  on  the  top  of  his  bald  head,  as 
if  to  defend  it  from  a  shower-bath,  and  looks  with  great  uneasi- 
ness at  Mrs.  Bagnet. 

"  George  ! "  says  that  old  girl.  "  I  wonder  at  you  !  George, 
I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  George,  I  couldn't  have  believed  you 
would  have  done  it !  I  always  knew  you  to  be  a  rolling  stone 
that  gathered  no  moss ;  but  I  never  thought  you  would  have 
taken  away  what  little  moss  there  was  for  Bagnet  and  the 
children  to  lie  upon.  You  know  what  a  hard-working,  steady- 
going  chap  he  is.  You  know  what  Quebec  and  Malta  and 
Woolwich  are  —  and  I  never  did  think  you  would,  or  could, 
have  had  the  heart  to  serve  us  so.  0  George  ! "  Mrs.  Bagnet 
gathers  up  her  cloak  to  wipe  her  eyes  on,  in  a  very  genuine 
manner,  "  How  could  you  do  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bagnet  ceasing,  Mr.  Bagnet  removes  his  hand  from  his 
head  as  if  the  shower-bath  were  over,  and  looks  disconsolately- 
at  Mr.  George ;  who  has  turned  quite  white,  and  looks  distress- 
fully at  the  gray  cloak  and  straw  bonnet. 

"  Mat,"  says  the  trooper,  in  a  subdued  voice,  addressing  him 
but  still  looking  at  his  wife ;  "  I  am  sorry  you  take  it  so  much 
to  heart,  because  I  do  hope  it's  not  so  bad  as  that  comes  to.  I 
certainly  have,  this  morning,  received  this  letter ; "  which  h& 
reads  aloud ;  "  but  I  hope  it  may  be  set  right  yet.  As  to  a 
rolling  stone,  why,  what  you  say  is  true.  I  am  a  rolling 
stone ;  and  I  never  rolled  in  anybody's  way,  I  fully  believe, 
that  I  rolled  the  least  good  to.    But  it's  impossible  for  an  old 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


39 


vagabond  comrade  to  like  your  wife  and  family  better  than  I 
like  'ein,  Mat.  and  I  trust  you'll  look  upon  me  as  forgivingly 
as  you  can.  Don't  think  I've  kept  anything  from  you.  I 
haven't  had  the  letter  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Old  girl ! "  murmurs  Mr.  Bagnet,  after  a  short  silence, 
"  will  you  tell  him  my  opinion  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Why  didn't  he  marry,"  Mrs.  Bagnet  answers,  half 
laughing  and  half  crying,  "Joe  Pouch's  widder  in  North 
America?  Then  he  wouldn't  have  got  himself  into  these 
troubles." 

"The  old  girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  "puts  it  correct  —  why 
didn't  you  ?  " 

"Well,  she  has  a  better  husband  by  this  time,  I  hope," 
returns  the  trooper.  "Anyhow,  here  I  stand,  this  present 
day,  not  married  to  Joe  Pouch's  widder.  What  shall  I  do  ? 
You  see  all  I  have  got  about  me.  It's  not  mine ;  it's  yours. 
Give  the  word,  and  I'll  sell  off  every  morsel.  If  I  could  have 
hoped  it  would  have  brought  in  nearly  the  sum  wanted,  I'd 
have  sold  all  long  ago.  Don't  believe  that  I'll  leave  you  or 
yours  in  the  lurch,  Mat.  I'd  sell  myself  first.  I  only  wish," 
says  the  trooper,  giving  himself  a  disparaging  blow  in  the 
chest,  "that  I  knew  of  any  one  who'd  buy  such  a  second- 
hand piece  of  old  stores." 

"Old  girl,"  murmurs  Mr.  Bagnet,  "give  him  another  bit  of 
my  mind." 

"  George,"  says  the  old  girl,  "  you  are  not  so  much  to  be 
blamed,  on  full  consideration,  except  for  ever  taking  this 
business  without  the  means." 

"  And  that  was  like  me ! "  observes  the  penitent  trooper, 
shaking  his  head.    "  Like  me,  I  know." 

"Silence  !  The  old  girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  "is  correct  —  in 
her  way  of  giving  my  opinions  —  hear  me  out !  " 

"That  was  when  you  never  ought  to  have  asked  for  the 
security,  George,  and  when  you  never  ought  to  have  got 
it,  all  things  considered.  But  what's  done  can't  be  undone. 
You  are  always  an  honorable  and  straightforward  fellow,  as 
far  as  lays  in  your  power,  though  a  little  flighty.  On  the 
other  hand,  you  can't  admit  but  what  it's  natural  in  us  to  be 
anxious,  with  such  a  thing  hanging  over  our  heads.  So 


40  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

forget  and  forgive  all  round,  George.    Conre  !    Forget  and 
forgive  all  round  !  " 

Mrs.  Bagnet,  giving  him  one  of  her  honest  hands,  and 
giving  her  husband  the  other,  Mr.  George  gives  each  of  them 
one  of  his,  and  holds  them  while  he  speaks. 

"  I  do  assure  you  both,  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to 
discharge  this  obligation.    But  whatever  I  have  been  able  to 
scrape  together,  has  gone  every  two  months  in  keeping 
it  up.    We  have  lived  plainly  enough  here,  Phil  and  I.  But 
the  Gallery  don't  quite  do  what  was  expected  of  it,  and  it's  not 
—  in  short,  it's  not  the  Mint.    It  was  wrong  in  me  to  take  it? 
Well,  so  it  was.    But  I  was  in  a  manner  drawn  into  that 
step,  and  I  thought  it  might  steady  me,  and  set  me  up,  and 
you'll  try  to  overlook  my  having  such  expectations,  and  upon 
my  soul,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  and  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself."    With  these  concluding  words,  Mr.  ; 
George  gives  a  shake  to  each  of  the  hands  he  holds,  and,  i 
relinquishing  them,  backs  a  pace  or  two,  in  a  broad-chested  ; 
upright  attitude,  as  if  he  had  made  a  final  confession,  and 
were  immediately  going  to  be  shot  with  all  military  honors.  i 

"  George,  hear  me  out ! "  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  glancing  at  his 
wife.    "  Old  girl,  go  on  ! " 

Mr.  Bagnet,  being  in  this  singular  manner  heard  out,  has  . 
merely  to  observe  that  the  letter  must  be  attended  to  without  ! 
any  delay ;  that  it  is  advisable  that  George  and  he  should  J 
immediately  wait  on  Mr.  Smallweed  in  person ;  and  that  the  j 
primary  object  is  to  save  and  hold  harmless  Mr.  Bagnet,  who  < 
had  none  of  the  money.  Mr.  George  entirely  assenting,  puts 
on  his  hat,  and  prepares  to  march  with  Mr.  Bagnet  to  the  h 
enemy's  camp. 

"  Don't  you  mind  a  woman's  hasty  word,  George,"  says 
Mrs.  Bagnet,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  u  I  trust  my  old 
Lignum  to  you,  and  I  am  sure  you'll  bring  him  through  it." 

The  trooper  returns,  that  this  is  kindly  said,  and  that 
he  will  bring  Lignum  through  it  somehow.  Upon  which 
Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  her  cloak,  basket,  and  umbrella,  goes 
home,  bright-eyed  again,  to  the  rest  of  her  family ;  and  the 
comrades  sally  forth  on  the  hopeful  errand  of  mollifying  Mr. 
Smallweed. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


41 


Whether  there  are  two  people  in  England  less  likely  to 
come  satisfactorily  out  of  any  negotiation  with  Mr.  Smallweed 
than  Mr.  George  and  Mr.  Matthew  Bagnet,  may  be  very  rea- 
sonably questioned.  Also,  notwithstanding  their  martial 
appearance,  broad  square  shoulders,  and  heavy  tread,  whether 
there  are,  within  the  same  limits,  two  more  simple  and  unac- 
customed children,  in  all  the  Smallweedy  affairs  of  life.  As 
they  proceed  with  great  gravity  through  the  streets  towards 
the  region  of  Mount  Pleasant,  Mr.  1  Bagnet,  observing  his 
companion  to  be  thoughtful,  considers  it  a  friendly  part  to 
refer  to  Mrs.  Bagnet's  late  sally. 

"George,  you  know  the  old  girl  —  she's  as  sweet  and  as 
mild  as  milk.    But  touch  her  on  the  children  —  or  myself 

—  and  she's  off  like  gunpowder." 
"  It  does  her  credit,  Mat !  " 

"George,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  looking  straight  before  him, 
"the  old  girl  —  can't  do  anything  —  that  don't  do  her  credit. 
More  or  less.  I  never  say  so.  Discipline  must  be  main- 
tained." 

"  She's  worth  her  weight  in  gold,"  returns  the  trooper. 

"In  gold?"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "I'll  tell  you  what.  The 
old  girl's  weight  —  is  twelve  stone  six.  Would  I  take  that 
weight  —  in  any  metal — for  the  old  girl?  !STo.  Why  not  ? 
Because  the  old  girl's  metal  is  far  more  precious  —  than  the 
preciousest  metal.    And  she's  all  metal ! " 

"  You  are  right,  Mat !  " 

"When  she  took  me  —  and  accepted  of  the  ring  —  she 
'listed  under  me  and  the  children  —  heart  and  head ;  for  life. 
She's  that  earnest,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  "  and  true  to  her  colors 

—  that,  touch  us  with  a  finger  —  and  she  turns  out — and 
stands  to  her  arms.    If  the  old  girl  fires  wide  — once  in  a  way 

—  at  the  call  of  duty  —  look  over  it,  George.  For  she's 
loyal ! " 

"  Why  bless  her,  Mat ! "  returns  the  trooper,  "  I  think  the 
higher  of  her  for  it !  " 

"You  are  right!"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  with  the  warmest 
enthusiasm,  though  without  relaxing  the  rigidity  of  a  single 
muscle.  "Think  as  high  of  the  old  girl— as  the  rock  of 
Gibraltar  —  and  still  you'll  be  thinking  low  —  of  such  merits. 


42 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


But  I  never  own  to  it  before  her.  Discipline  must  be  main- 
tained." 

These  encomiums  bring  them  to  Mount  Pleasant  and  to 
Grandfather  Smallweed's  house.  The  door  is  opened  by  the 
perennial  Judy,  who,  having  surveyed  them  from  top  to  toe 
with  no  particular  favor,  but  indeed  with  a  malignant  sneer, 
leaves  them  standing  there,  while  she  consults  the  oracle  as  to 
their  admission.  The  oracle  may  be  inferred  to  give  consent, 
from  the  circumstance  of  her  returning  with  the  words  on  her 
honey  lips  "  that  they  can  come  in  if  they  want  to  it."  Thus 
privileged  they  come  in,  and  find  Mr.  Smallweed  with  his 
feet  in  the  drawer  of  his  chair  as  if  it  were  a  paper  foot-bath, 
and  Mrs.  Smallweed  obscured  with  the  cushion  like  a  bird  that 
is  not  to  sing. 

"My  dear  friend,"  says  Grandfather  Smallweed,  with  those- 
two  lean  affectionate  arms  of  his  stretched  forth.  "How  de; 
do  ?    How  de  do  ?    Who  is  our  friend,  my  dear  friend  ?  " 

"Why  this,"  returns  George,  not  able  to  be  very  concilia-; 
tory  at  first,  "  is  Matthew  Bagnet,  who  has  obliged  me  in  that 
matter  of  ours,  you  know." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Bagnet?  Surely!"  The  old  man  looks  at! 
him  under  his  hand.  "Hope  you're  well,  Mr.  Bagnet?; 
Fine  man,  Mr.  George  !    Military  air,  sir ! " 

No  chairs  being  offered,  Mr.  George  brings  one  forward  for 
Bagnet,  and  one  for  himself.  They  sit  down ;  Mr.  Bagnet  as,, 
if  he  had  no  power  of  bending  himself,  except  at  the  hips  fori 
that  purpose. 

"Judy,"  says  Mr.  Smallweed,  "bring  the  pipe." 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  Mr.  George  interposes,  "that  the* 
young  woman  need  give  herself  that  trouble,  for  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  not  inclined  to  smoke  it  to-day." 

"Ain't  you?"  returns  the  old  man.  "Judy,  bring  the 
pipe." 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Smallweed,"  proceeds  George,  "that  I 
find  myself  in  rather  an  unpleasant  state  of  mind.  It  appears 
to  me,  sir,  that  your  friend  in  the  city  has  been  playing 

tricks." 

"  0  dear  no  !  "  says  Grandfather  Smallweed.  "  He  never 
does  that ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


43 


"  Don't  he  ?  Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  because  I  thought 
it  might  be  his  doing.  This,  you  know,  I  am  speaking  of. 
This  letter." 

Grandfather  Smallweed  smiles  in  a  very  ugly  way,  in  recog- 
nition of  the  letter. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  asks  Mr.  George. 

"Judy,"  says  the  old  man,  "have  you  got  the  pipe? 
Give  it  to  me.  Did  you  say  what  does  it  mean,  my  good 
friend  ?  " 

"Ay!  Now,  come,  come,  you  know,  Mr.  Smallweed," 
urges  the  trooper,  constraining  himself  to  speak  as  smoothly 
and  confidentially  as  he  can,  holding  the  open  letter  in  one 
hand,  and  resting  the  broad  knuckles  of  the  other  on  his 
thigh ;  "  a  good  lot  of  money  has  passed  between  us,  and  we 
are  face  to  face  at  the  present  moment,  and  are  both  well 
aware  of  the  understanding  there  has  always  been.  I  am 
prepared  to  do  the  usual  thing  which  I  have  done  regularly, 
and  to  keep  this  matter  going.  I  never  got  a  letter  like  this 
from  you  before,  and  I  have  been  a  little  put  about  by  it 
this  morning;  because  here's  my  friend  Matthew  Bagnet, 
who,  you  know,  had  none  of  the  money"  — 

"I  don't  know  it,  you  know,"  says  the  old  man,  quietly. 

"  Why,  con-found  you  —  it,  I  mean  —  I  tell  you  so :  don't 
I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  tell  me  so,"  returns  Grandfather  Smallweed. 
"But  I  don't  know  it." 

"Well!"  says  the  trooper,  swallowing  his  fire.  "I  know 
it." 

>  Mr.  Smallweed  replies  with  excellent  temper,  "Ah  !  that's 
quite  another  thing!"  And  adds,  "but  it  don't  matter. 
Mr.  Bagnet's  situation  is  all  one,  whether  or  no." 

The  unfortunate  George  makes  a  great  effort  to  arrange  the 
affair  comfortably,  and  to  propitiate  Mr.  Smallweed  by  taking 
him  upon  his  own  terms. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean.  As  you  say,  Mr.  Smallweed, 
riere's  Matthew  Bagnet  liable  to  be  fixed  whether  or  no. 
Now,  you  see,  that  makes  his  good  lady  very  uneasy  in  her 
mind,  and  me  too ;  for,  whereas  I'm  a  harum-scarum  sort  of 
x  good-for-nought,  that  more  kicks  than  halfpence  come  natural 


44  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

to,  why  he's  a  steady  family  man,  don't  you  see  ?  Now,  Mr. 
Smallweed,"  says  the  trooper,  gaining  confidence  as  he  pro- 
ceeds in  this  soldierly  mode  of  doing  business;  "although 
you  and  I  are  good  friends  enough  in  a  certain  sort  of  a  way, 
I  am  well  aware  that  I  can't  ask  you  to  let  my  friend  Bagnet 
off  entirely." 

"  0  dear,  you  are  too  modest.  You  can  ask  me  anything, 
Mr.  George."  (There  is  an  Ogreish  kind  of  jocularity  in 
Grandfather  Smallweed  to-day.) 

"  And  you  can  refuse,  you  mean,  eh  ?  Or  not  you  so  much, 
perhaps,  as  your  friend  in  the  city  ?    Ha  ha  ha !  " 

"  Ha  ha  ha !  "  echoes  Grandfather  Smallweed.  In  such  a 
very  hard  manner,  and  with  eyes  so  particularly  green,  that 
Mr.  Bagnet's  natural  gravity  is  much  deepened  by  the  con- 
templation of  that  venerable  man. 

"  Come  !  "  says  the  sanguine  George,  "  I  am  glad  to  find  we 
can  be  pleasant,  because  I  want  to  arrange  this  pleasantly.. 
Here's  my  friend  Bagnet,  and  here  am  I.  We'll  settle  the; 
matter  on  the  spot,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Smallweed,  in  the  usual' 
way.  And  you'll  ease  my  friend  Bagnet's  mind,  and  his 
family's  mind,  a  good  deal,  if  you'll  just  mention  to  him  whatj 
our  understanding  is." 

Here  some  shrill  spectre  cries  out  in  a  mocking  manner, 
"0  good  gracious!  0!"  —  unless,  indeed,  it  be  the  sportive 
Judy,  who  is  found  to  be  silent  when  the  startled  visitors  loofc 
round,  but  whose  chin  has  received  a  recent  toss,  expressive 
of  derision  and  contempt.  Mr.  Bagnet's  gravity  becomes  ye| 
more  profound.  I 

"  But  I  think  you  asked  me,  Mr.  George ;  "  old  Smallweed; 
who  all  this  time  has  had  the  pipe  in  his  hand,  is  the  speaker 
now  ;  "  I  think  you  asked  me,  what  did  the  letter  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  I  did,"  returns  the  trooper,  in  his  off-hand  way: 
"  but  I  dont  care  to  know  particularly,  if  it's  all  correct  and 
pleasant." 

Mr.  Smallweed,  purposely  balking  himself  in  an  aim  at  the 
trooper's  head,  throws  the  pipe  on  the  ground  and  breaks  il 
to  pieces. 

"  That's  what  it  means,  my  dear  friend.  I'll  smash  you 
I'll  crumble  you.    I'll  powder  you.    Go  to  the  devil ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


45 


The  two  friends  rise  and  look  at  one  another.  Mr.  Bagnet's 
gravity  has  now  attained  its  profoundest  point. 

"  Go  to  the  devil ! "  repeats  the  old  man.  "  I'll  have  no 
more  of  your  pipe-smokings  and  swaggerings.  What? 
You're  an  independent  dragoon,  too  !  Go  to  my  lawyer  (you 
remember  where;  you  have  been  there  before),  and  show 
your  independence  now,  will  you  ?  Come,  my  dear  friend, 
there's  a  chance  for  you.  Open  the  street  door,  Judy ;  put 
these  blusterers  out !  Call  in  help  if  they  don't  go.  Put  'em 
out ! " 

He  vociferates  this  so  loudly,  that  Mr.  Bagnet,  laying  his 
hands  on  the  shoulders  of  his  comrade,  before  the  latter  can 
recover  from  his  amazement,  gets  him  on  the  outside  of  the 
street  door ;  which  is  instantly  slammed  by  the  triumphant 
Judy.  Utterly  confounded,  Mr.  George  awhile  stands  looking 
at  the  knocker.  Mr.  Bagnet,  in  a  perfect  abyss  of  gravity, 
walks  up  and  down  before  the  little  parlor  window,  like  a 
sentry,  and  looks  in  every  time  he  passes  ;  apparently  revolv- 
ing something  in  his  mind. 

"Come,  Mat!"  says  Mr.  George,  when  he  has  recovered 
himself,  "  we  must  try  the  lawyer.  Now,  what  do  you  think 
of  this  rascal  ?  " 

Mr.  Bagnet,  stopping  to  take  a  farewell  look  into  the  parlor, 
replies,  with  one  shake  of  his  head  directed  at  the  interior, 
"  If  my  old  girl  had  been  here  —  I'd  have  told  him ! "  Having 
so  discharged  himself  of  the  subject  of  his  cogitations,  he  falls 
into  step,  and  marches  off  with  the  trooper,  shoulder  to 
shoulder. 

When  they  present  themselves  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn  is  engaged,  and  not  to  be  seen.  He  is  not  at  all 
villing  to  see  them  ;  for  when  they  have  waited  a  full  hour, 
md  the  clerk,  on  his  bell  being  rung,  takes  the  opportunity  of 
nentioning  as  much,  he  brings  forth  no  more  encouraging 
nessage  than  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  nothing  to  say  to 
hem,  and  they  had  better  not  wait.  They  do  wait,  however, 
vith  the  perseverance  of  military  tactics ;  and  at  last  the 
>ell  rings  again,  and  the  client  in  possession  comes  out  of  Mr. 
-ulkinghorn's  room. 

The  client  is  a  handsome  old  lady;  no  other  than  Mrs. 


3 


46  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

Rouncewell,  housekeeper  at  Chesney  Wold.  She  conies  out 
of  the  sanctuary  with  a  fair  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  softly 
shuts  the  door.  She  is  treated  with  some  distinction  there; 
for  the  clerk  steps  out  of  his  pew  to  show  her  through  the 
outer  office,  and  to  let  her  out.  The  old  lady  is  thanking 
him  for  his  attention,  when  she  observes  the  comrades  in 

waiting.  ,  , 

« I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  think  those  gentlemen  are 

military  ?  "  j 
The  clerk  referring  the  question  to  them  with  his  eye,  and 
Mr  George  not  turning  round  from  the  almanac  over  the 
fireplace,  Mr.  Bagnet  takes  upon  himself  to  reply,  "Yes, 
ma'am.  Formerly." 

"I  thought  so.  I  was  sure  of  it.  My  heart  warms, 
gentlemen,  at  the  sight  of  you.  It  always  does  at  the  sight' 
of  such.  God  bless  you,  gentlemen!  You'll  excuse  an  old, 
woman;  but  I  had  a  son  once  who  went  for  a  soldier.  A 
fine  handsome  youth  he  was,  and  good  in  his  bold  way,: 
thou-h  some  people  did  disparage  him  to  his  poor  mother. 
I  ask  your  pardon  for  troubling  you,  sir.    God  bless  you, 

gentlemen!"  .  , 

"Same  to  you,  ma'am!"  returns  Mr.  Bagnet,  with  right 

good-will.  „   ,  I 

There  is  something  very  touching  in  the  earnestness  of  the 
old  lady's  voice,  and  in  the  tremble  that  goes  through  he* 
quaint  old  figure.  But  Mr.  George  is  so  occupied  with  tU\ 
almanac  over  the  fireplace  (calculating  the  coming  months  05 
it,  perhaps),  that  he  does  not  look  round  until  she  has  gonf! 
away,  and  the  door  is  closed  upon  her. 

"George,"  Mr.  Bagnet  gruffly  whispers,  when  he  does  turr 
from  the  almanac  at  last.  "Don't  be  cast  down!  <  Whj 
soldiers,  why  -  should  we  be  melancholy  boys  ?     Cheer  up 

my  hearty ! "  .  ! 

The  clerk  having  now  again  gone  in  to  say  that  they  a* 
still  there,  and  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  being  heard  to  return  wit) 
some  irascibility,  "  Let  'em  come  in  then  ! "  they  pass  into  th 
great  room  with  the  painted  ceiling,  and  find  him  standing 

before  the  fire.  j 
«  Now  you  men,  what  do  you  want  ?    Sergeant,  I  told  yc 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


47 


the  last  time  I  saw  you  that  I  don't  desire  your  company 
here." 

Sergeant  replies  —  dashed  within  the  last  few  minutes  as  to 
his  usual  manner  of  speech,  and  even  as  to  his  usual  carriage 

—  that  he  has  received  this  letter,  has  been  to  Mr.  Smallweed 
about  it,  and  has  been  referred  there. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you/'  rejoins  Mr.  Tulkinghorn. 
"  If  you  get  into  debt,  you  must  pay  your  debts,  or  take  the 
consequences.  You  have  no  occasion  to  come  here  to  learn 
that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Sergeant  is  sorry  to  say  that  he  is  not  prepared  with  the 
money. 

"  Very  well !  then  the  other  man  —  this  man,  if  this  is  he  — 
must  pay  it  for  you." 

Sergeant  is  sorry  to  add  that  the  other  man  is  not  prepared 
with  the  money  either. 

"  Very  well !  Then  you  must  pay  it  between  you,  or  you 
must  both  be  sued  for  it,  and  both  suffer.  You  have  had  the 
money  and  must  refund  it.  You  are  not  to  pocket  other 
people's  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  and  escape  scot  free." 

The  lawyer  sits  down  in  his  easy-chair  and  stirs  the  fire. 
Mr.  George  hopes  he  will  have  the  goodness  to  — 

"I  tell  you,  Sergeant,  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  I  don't 
like  your  associates,  and  don't  want  you  here.  This  matter  is 
not  at  all  in  my  course  of  practice,  and  is  not  in  my  office. 
Mr.  Swallweed  is  good  enough  to  offer  these  affairs  to  me,  but 
they  are  not  in  my  way.  You  must  go  to  Melchisedech's  in 
Clifford's  Inn." 

"  I  must  make  an  apology  to  you,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George, 
"  for  pressing  myself  upon  you  with  so  little  encouragement 

—  which  is  almost  as  unpleasant  to  me  as  it  can  be  to  you ; 
but  would  you  let  me  say  a  private  word  to  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  rises  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
walks  into  one  of  the  window  recesses.  "Now!  I  have  no 
time  to  waste."  In  the  midst  of  his  perfect  assumption  of 
indifference,  he  directs  a  sharp  look  at  the  trooper ;  taking- 
care  to  stand  with  his  own  back  to  the  light,  and  to  have  the 
other  with  his  face  towards  it. 

"Well,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  "this  man  with  me  is  the 


48 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


other  party  implicated  in  this  unfortunate  affair  —  nominally, 
only  nominally  —  and  my  sole  object  is  to  prevent  his  getting 
into  trouble  on  my  account.  He  is  a  most  respectable  man 
with  a  wife  and  family  ;  formerly  in  the  Royal  Artillery  "  — 

"My  friend,  I  don't  care  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  the  whole 
Eoyal  Artillery  establishment  —  officers,  men,  tumbrils, 
wagons,  horses,  guns,  and  ammunition.'* 

"  'Tis  likely,  sir.  But  I  care  a  good  deal  for  Bagnet  and 
his  wife  and  family  being  injured  on  my  account.  And  if  I 
could  bring  them  through  this  matter,  I  should  have  no  help 
for  it  but  to  give  up  without  any  other  consideration,  what 
you  wanted  of  me  the  other  day." 

"  Have  you  got  it  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  got  it  here,  sir." 

"  Sergeant,"  the  lawyer  proceeds  in  his  dry  passionless 
manner,  far  more  hopeless  in  the  dealing  with  than  any , 
amount  of  vehemence,  "  make  up  your  mind  while  I  speak  to  ; 
you,  for  this  is  final.    After  I  have  finished  speaking  I  have  ! 
closed  the  subject,  and  I  won't  reopen  it.    Understand  that. 
You  can  leave  here,  for  a  few  days,  what  you  say  you  have \ 
brought  here,  if  you  choose ;  you  can  take  it  away  at  once,  • 
if  you  choose.    In  case  you  choose  to  leave  it  here,  I  can  do 
this  for  you  —  I  can  replace  this  matter  on  its  old  footing, 
and  I  can  go  so  far  besides  as  to  give  you  a  written  undertak- 
ing that  this  man  Bagnet  shall  never  be  troubled  in  any  way, 
until  you  have  been  proceeded  against  to  the  utmost  —  thatj 
your  means  shall  be  exhausted  before  the  creditor  looks  to\ 
his.    This  is  in  fact  all  but  freeing  him.    Have  you  de-' 
cided  ?  " 

The  trooper  puts  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  answers  with 
a  long  breath,  "  I  must  do  it,  sir." 

So  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  putting  on  his  spectacles,  sits  down 
and  writes  the  undertaking ;  which  he  slowly  reads  and 
explains  to  Bagnet,  who  has  all  this  time  been  staring  at  the  j 
ceiling,  and  who  puts  his  hand  on  his  bald  head  again,  under 
this  new  verbal  shower-bath,  and  seems  exceedingly  in  need 
of  the  old  girl  through  whom  to  express  his  sentiments.  The 
trooper  then  takes  from  his  breast  pocket  a  folded  paper, 
which  he  lays  with  an  unwilling  hand  at  the  lawyer's  elbow. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


49 


"?Tis  only  a  letter  of  instructions,  sir.  The  last  I  ever  had 
from  him." 

Look  at  a  millstone,  Mr.  George,  for  some  change  in  its 
expression,  and  you  will  find  it  quite  as  soon  as  in  the  face  of 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn  when  he  opens  and  reads  the  letter !  He 
refolds  it,  and  lays  it  in  his  desk,  with  a  countenance  as  im- 
perturbable as  Death. 

Nor  has  he  anything  more  to  say  or  do,  but  to  nod  once  in 
the  same  frigid  and  discourteous  manner,  and  to  say  briefly, 
"  You  can  go.  Show  these  men  out,  there  !  "  Being  shown 
out,  they  repair  to  Mr.  Bagnet' s  residence  to  dine. 

Boiled  beef  and  greens  constitute  the  day's  variety  on  the 
former  repast  of  boiled  pork  and  greens ;  and  Mrs.  Bagnet 
serves  out  the  meal  in  the  same  way,  and  seasons  it  with  the 
best  of  temper;  being  that  rare  sort  of  old  girl  that  she 
receives  Good  to  her  arms  without  a  hint  that  it  might  be 
Better ;  and  catches  light  from  any  little  spot  of  darkness 
near  her.  The  spot  on  this  occasion  is  the  darkened  brow  of 
Mr.  George  ;  he  is  unusually  thoughtful  and  depressed.  At 
first  Mrs.  Bagnet  trusts  to  the  combined  endearments  of 
Quebec  and  Malta  to  restore  him ;  but  finding  those  young 
ladies  sensible  that  their  existing  Bluffy  is  not  the  Bluffy  of 
their  usual  frolicsome  acquaintance,  she  winks  off  the  light 
infantry,  and  leaves  him  to  deploy  at  leisure  on  the  open 
ground  of  the  domestic  hearth. 

But  he  does  not.  He  remains  in  close  order,  clouded  and 
depressed.  During  the  lengthy  cleaning  up  and  pattening 
process,  when  he  and  Mr.  Bagnet  are  supplied  with  their 
pipes,  he  is  no  better  than  he  was  at  dinner.  He  forgets  to 
smoke,  looks  at  the  fire  and  ponders,  lets  his  pipe  out,  fills  the 
breast  of  Mr.  Bagnet  with  perturbation  and  dismay,  by  show- 
ing that  he  has  no  enjoyment  of  tobacco. 

Therefore  when  Mrs.  Bagnet  at  last  appears,  rosy  from  the 
invigorating  pail,  and  sits  down  to  her  work,  Mr.  Bagnet 
growls  "  Old  Girl !  "  and  winks  monitions  to  her  to  find  out 
what's  the  matter. 

"  Why,  George  !  "  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  quietly  threading  her 
needle.    "  How  low  you  are  !  " 

"Am  I  ?    Not  good  company  ?   Well,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not." 

VOL.  II. 


50 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  He  ain't  at  all  like  Bluffy,  mother  !  "  cries  little  Malta. 

" Because  he  ain't  well,  /  think,  mother!"  adds  Quebec. 

"  Sure  that's  a  bad  sign  not  to  be  like  Bluffy,  too  !  "  returns 
the  trooper,  kissing  the  young  damsels.  "  But  it's  true,"  with 
a  sigh  —  "  true,  I  am  afraid.  These  little  ones  are  always 
right ! " 

"  George,"  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  working  busily,  "  if  I  thought 
you  cross  enough  to  think  of  anything  that  a  shrill  old  soldier's 
wife  —  who  could  have  bitten  her  tongue  off  afterwards,  and 
ought  to  have  done  it  almost  —  said  this  morning,  I  don't  know 
what  I  shouldn't  say  to  you  now." 

"  My  kind  soul  of  a  darling,"  returns  the  trooper.  "  Not  a 
morsel  of  it." 

"  Because  really  and  truly,  George,  what  I  said  and  meant 
to  say,  was  that  I  trusted  Lignum  to  you,  and  was  sure  you'd 
bring  him  through  it.  And  you  have  brought  him  through' 
it,  noble ! " 

"  Thank  'ee,  my  dear,"  says  George.  "  I  am  glad  of  your 
good  opinion." 

In  giving  Mrs.  Bagnet's  hand,  with  her  work  in  it,  a ; 
friendly  shake  —  for  she  took  her  seat  beside  him  —  the 
trooper's  attention  is  attracted  to  her  face.  After  looking  at 
it  for  a  little  while  as  she  plies  her  needle,  he  looks  to  young 
Woolwich,  sitting  on  his  stool  in  the  corner,  and  beckons  that 
fifer  to  him. 

"See  there,  my  boy,"  says  George,  very  gently  smoothing  j 
the  mother's  hair  with  his  hand,  "there's  a  good  loving  fore-; 
head  for  you !  All  bright  with  love  of  you,  my  boy.  A  little 
touched  by  the  sun  and  the  weather  through  following  yourf 
father  about  and  taking  care  of  you,  but  as  fresh  and  whole- 
some as  a  ripe  apple  on  a  tree." 

Mr.  Bagnet's  face  expresses,  so  far  as  in  its  wooden  material 
lies,  the  highest  approbation  and  acquiescence. 

"  The  time  will  come,  my  boy,"  pursues  the  trooper,  "  when 
this  hair  of  your  mother's  will  be  gray,  and  this  forehead  all 
crossed  and  recrossed  with  wrinkles  —  and  a  fine  old  lady  j 
she'll  be  then.  Take  care,  while  you  are  young,  that  you| 
can  think  in  those  days,  <  J  never  whitened  a  hair  of  her  dear! 
head,  /  never  marked  a  sorrowful  line  in  her  face  ! '    For  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


51 


all  the  many  things  that  you  can  think  of  when  you  are  a 
man,  you  had  better  have  that  by  you,  Woolwich  !  " 

Mr.  George  concludes  by  rising  from  his  chair,  seating 
the  boy  beside  his  mother  in  it,  and  saying,  with  something 
of  a  hurry  about  him,  that  hell  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  street 
a  bit. 


52 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Esther's  narrative. 

I  lay  ill  through  several  weeks,  and  the  usual  tenor  of  my 
life  became  like  an  old  remembrance.    But,  this  was  not  the 
effect  of  time,  so  much  as  of  the  change  in  all  my  habits 
made  by  the  helplessness  and  inaction  of  a  sick-room.  Before 
I  had  been  confined  to  it  many  days,  everything  else  seemed 
to  have  retired  into  a  remote  distance,  where  there  was  little 
or  no  separation  between  the  various  stages  of  my  life  which  $ ; 
had  been  really  divided  by  years.    In  falling  ill,  I  seemed  to  - 
have  crossed  a  dark  lake,  and  to  have  left  all  my  experiences,  ' 
mingled  together  by  the  great  distance,  on  the  healthy  shore. 

My  housekeeping  duties,  though  at  first  it  caused  me  great  i 
anxiety  to  think  that  they  were  unperformed,  were  soon  as 
far  off  as  the  oldest  of  the  old  duties  at  Greenleaf,  or  the 
summer  afternoons  when  I  went  home  from  school  with  my 
portfolio  under  my  arm,  and  my  childish  shadow  at  my  side,  ! 
to  my  godmother's  house.    I  had  never  known  before  how  i 
short  life  really  was,  and  into  how  small  a  space  the  mind  \ 
could  put  it. 

While  I  was  very  ill,  the  way  in  which  these  divisions  of 
time  became  confused  with  one  another,  distressed  my  mind 
exceedingly.  At  once  a  child,  an  elder  girl,  and  the  little 
woman  I  had  been  so  happy  as,  I  was  nqt  only  oppressed  by 
cares  and  difficulties  adapted  to  each  station,  but  by  the  great 
perplexity  of  endlessly  trying  to  reconcile  them.  I  suppose 
that  few  who  have  not  been  in  such  a  condition  can  quite 
understand  what  I  mean,  or  what  painful  unrest  arose  from 
this  source. 

For  the  same  reason  I  am  almost  afraid  to  hint  at  that  time 
in  my  disorder — it  seemed  one  long  night,  but  I  believe 
there  were  both  nights  and  days  in  it  —  when  I  labored  up 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


53 


colossal  staircases,  ever  striving  to  reach  the  top,  and  ever 
turned,  as  I  have  seen  a  worm  in  a  garden  path,  by  some 
obstruction,  and  laboring  again.  I  knew  perfectly  at  inter- 
vals, and  I  think  vaguely  at  most  times,  that  I  was  in  my 
bed ;  and  I  talked  with  Charley,  and  felt  her  touch,  and  knew 
her  very  well ;  yet  I  would  find  myself  complaining  "  0  more 
of  these  never-ending  stairs,  Charley,  —  more  and  more  — 
piled  up  to  the  sky,  I  think ! "  and  laboring  on  again. 

Dare  I  hint  at  that  worse  time  when,  strung  together  some- 
where in  great  black  space,  there  was  a  flaming  necklace,  or 
ring,  or  starry  circle  of  some  kind,  of  which  /  was  one  of  the 
beads  !  And  when  my  only  prayer  was  to  be  taken  off  from 
the  rest,  and  when  it  was  such  inexplicable  agony  and  misery 
to  be  a  part  of  the  dreadful  thing  ? 

Perhaps  the  less  I  say  of  these  sick  experiences,  the  less 
tedious  and  the  more  intelligible  I  shall  be.  I  do  not  recall 
them  to  make  others  unhappy,  or  because  I  am  now  the  least 
unhappy  in  remembering  them.  It  may  be  that  if  we  knew 
more  of  such  strange  afflictions,  we  might  be  better  able  to 
alleviate  their  intensity. 

The  repose  that  succeeded,  the  long  delicious  sleep,  the 
blissful  rest,  when  in  my  weakness  I  was  too  calm  to  have 
any  care  for  myself,  and  could  have  heard  (or  so  I  think  now) 
that  I  was  dying ;  with  no  other  emotion  than  with  a  pitying 
love  for  those  I  left  behind  —  this  state  can  be  perhaps  more 
widely  understood.  I  was  in  this  state  when  I  first  shrunk 
from  the  light  as  it  twinkled  on  me  once  more,  and  knew  with 
a  boundless  joy  for  which  no  words  are  rapturous  enough,  that 
I  should  see  again. 

I  had  heard  my  Ada  crying  at  the  door,  day  and  night ;  I 
had  heard  her  calling  to  me  that  I  was  cruel  and  did  not  love 
her ;  I  had  heard  her  praying  and  imploring  to  be  let  in  to 
nurse  and  comfort  me,  and  to  leave  my  bedside  no  more  ;  but 
[  had  only  said,  when  I  could  speak,  "  Never,  my  sweet  girl, 
aever  !  "  and  I  had  over  and  over  again  reminded  Charley  that 
me  was  to  keep  my  darling  from  the  room,  whether  I  lived 
Dr  died.  Charley  had  been  true  to  me  in  that  time  of  need, 
ind  with  her  little  hand  and  her  great  heart  had  kept  the 
loor  fast. 


54  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

But  now,  my  sight  strengthening,  and  the  glorious  light 
coming  every  day  more  fully  and  brightly  on  me,  I  could  read 
the  letters  that  my  dear  wrote  to  me  every  morning  and 
evening,  and  could  put  them  to  my  lips  and  lay  my  cheek 
upon  them  with  no  fear  of  hurting  her.  I  could  see  my  little 
maid,  so  tender  and  so  careful,  going  about  the  two  rooms 
setting  everything  in  order,  and  speaking  cheerfully  to  Ada 
from  the  open  window  again.  I  could  understand  the  still- 
ness in  the  house,  and  the  thoughtfulness  it  expressed  on  the 
part  of  all  those  who  had  always  been  so  good  to  me.  I  could 
weep  in  the  exquisite  felicity  of  my  heart,  and  be  as  happy  in 
my  weakness  as  ever  I  had  been  in  my  strength. 

By  and  by,  my  strength  began  to  be  restored.  Instead  of 
lying,  with  so  strange  a  calmness,  watching  what  was  done 
for  me,  as  if  it  were  done  for  some  one  else  whom  I  was' 
quietly  sorry  for,  I  helped  it  a  little,  and  so  on  to  a  little  morey 
and  much  more,  until  I  became  useful  to  myself,  and  inter-: 
ested,  and  attached  to  life  again. 

How  well  I  remember  the  pleasant  afternoon  when  I  was,( 
raised  in  bed  with  pillows  for  the  first  time,  to  enjoy  a  great*' 
tea-drinking  with  Charley  !  The  little  creature  —  sent  into' 
the  world,  surely,  to  minister  to  the  weak  and  sick  —  was  so- 
happy,  and  so  busy,  and  stopped  so  often  in  her  preparations 
to  lay  her  head  upon  my  bosom,  and  fondle  me,  and  cry  with, 
joyful  tears  she  was  so  glad,  she  was  so  glad  !  that  I  was,; 
obliged  to  say,  "  Charley,  if  you  go  on  in  this  way,  I  must  lie] 
down  again,  my  darling,  for  I  am  weaker  than  I  thought  15 
was  ! "  So  Charley  became  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  took  her 
bright  face  here  and  there,  across  and  across  the  two  rooms/ 
out  of  the  shade  into  the  divine  sunshine,  and  out  of  the 
sunshine  into  the  shade,  while  I  watched  her  peacefully. 
When  all  her  preparations  were  concluded  and  the  pretty  tea- 
table  with  its  little  delicacies  to  tempt  me,  and  its  white  cloth, 
and  its  flowers,  and  everything  so  lovingly  and  beautifully 
arranged  for  me  by  Ada  down-stairs,  was  ready  at  the  bed- 
side, I  felt  sure  I  was  steady  enough  to  say  something  to 
Charley  that  was  not  new  to  my  thoughts. 

First,  I  complimented  Charley  on  the  room ;  and  indeed,  it 
was  so  fresh  and  airy,  so  spotless  and  neat,  that  I  could  scarce 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


55 


believe  I  had  been  lying  there  so  long.  This  delighted 
Charley,  and  her  face  was  brighter  than  before. 

"  Yet,  Charley,"  said  I  looking  round,  "  I  miss  something, 
surely,  that  I  am  accustomed  to  ?  " 

Poor  little  Charley  looked  round  too,  and  pretended  to  shake 
her  head,  as  if  there  were  nothing  absent. 

"  Are  the  pictures  all  as  they  used  to  be  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Every  one  of  them,  miss,"  said  Charley. 

"  And  the  furniture,  Charley  ?  " 

"  Except  where  I  have  moved  it  about,  to  make  more  room, 
miss." 

"  And  yet,"  said  I,  "  I  miss  some  familiar  object.  Ah  I 
know  what  it  is,  Charley  !    It's  the  looking-glass." 

Charley  got  up  from  the  table,  making  as  if  she  had  for- 
gotten something,  and  went  into  the  next  room ;  and  I  heard 
her  sob  there. 

I  had  thought  of  this  very  often.  I  was  now  certain  of  it. 
I  could  thank  God  that  it  was  not  a  shock  to  me  now.  I 
called  Charley  back ;  and  when  she  came  —  at  first  pretending 
to  smile,  but  as  she  drew  nearer  to  me,  looking  grieved  —  I 
took  her  in  my  arms,  and  said,  "  It  matters  very  little, 
Charley.    I  hope  I  can  do  without  my  old  face  very  well." 

I  was  presently  so  far  advanced  as  to  be  able  to  sit  up  in  a 
great  chair,  and  even  giddily  to  walk  into  the  adjoining  room, 
leaning  on  Charley.  The  mirror  was  gone  from  its  usual 
place  in  that  room  too ;  but  what  I  had  to  bear,  was  none  the 
harder  to  bear  for  that. 

My  Guardian  had  throughout  been  earnest  to  visit  me,  and 
there  was  now  no  good  reason  why  I  should  deny  myself  that 
happiness.  He  came  one  morning ;  and  when  he  first  came 
in,  could  only  hold  me  in  his  embrace,  and  say,  "  My  dear, 
dear  girl ! "  I  had  long  known  —  who  could  know  better  !  — 
what  a  deep  fountain  of  affection  and  generosity  his  heart 
was ;  and  was  it  not  worth  my  trivial  suffering  and  change  to 
fill  such  a  place  in  it  ?  "  0  yes  ! "  I  thought.  "  He  has  seen 
me,  and  he  loves  me  better  than  he  did  ;  he  has  seen  me,  and 
is  even  fonder  of  me  than  he  was  before  ;  and  what  have  I  to 
mourn  for !  " 

He  sat  down  by  me  on  the  sofa,  supporting  me  with  his 


56 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


arm.  For  a  little  while  he  sat  with  his  hand  over  his  face, 
but  when  he  removed  it,  fell  into  his  usual  manner.  There 
never  can  have  been,  there  never  can  be,  a  pleasanter  manner. 

"My  little  woman,"  said  he,  "what  a  sad  time  this  has 
been.    Such  an  inflexible  little  woman,  too,  through  all ! " 

"  Only  for  the  best,  Guardian,"  said  I. 

"  For  the  best  ?  "  he  repeated  tenderly.  "  Of  course,  for 
the  best.  But  here  have  Ada  and  I  been  perfectly  forlorn 
and  miserable  ;  here  has  your  friend  Caddy  been  coming  and 
going  late  and  early ;  here  has  every  one  about  the  house  been 
utterly  lost  and  dejected;  here  has  even  poor  Rick  been 
writing  —  to  me  too  — in  his  anxiety  for  you  !  " 

I  had  read  of  Caddy  in  Ada's  letters,  but  not  of  Richard. 
I  told  him  so. 

"Why  no,  my  dear,"  he  replied.  "I  have  thought  it 
better  not  to  mention  it  to  her."  s 

"  And  you  speak  of  his  writing  to  you"  said  I,  repeating 
his  emphasis.  "  As  if  it  were  not  natural  for  him  to  do  so, 
Guardian ;  as  if  he  could  write  to  a  better  friend ! " 

"  He  thinks  he  could,  my  love,"  returned  my  Guardian, 
"and  to  many  a  better.  The  truth  is,  he  wrote  to  me  under 
a  sort  of  protest,  while  unable  to  write  to  you  with  any  hope 
of  an  answer  —  wrote  coldly,  haughtily,  distantly,  resentfully. 
Well,  dearest  little  woman,  we  must  look  forbearingly  on  it. 
He  is  not  to  blame.  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  has  warped  him 
out  of  himself,  and  perverted  me  in  his  eyes.  I  have  known 
it  do  as  bad  deeds,  and  worse,  many  a  time.  If  two  angels 
could  be  concerned  in  it,  I  believe  it  would  change  their 
nature." 

"  It  has  not  changed  yours,  Guardian." 

"Oh  yes,  it  has,  my  dear,"  he  said,  laughingly.  "It  has 
made  the  south  wind  easterly,  I  don't  know  how  often.  Rick 
mistrusts  and  suspects  me  —  goes  to  lawyers,  and  is  taught  to 
mistrust  and  suspect  me.  Hears  I  have  conflicting  interests; 
claims  clashing  against  his,  and  what  not.  Whereas,  Heaven 
knows,  that  if  I  could  get  out  of  the  mountains  of  Wiglomer- 
ation  on  which  my  unfortunate  name  has  been  so  long 
bestowed  (which  I  can't),  or  could  level  them  by  the  extinction 
of  my  own  original  right  (which  I  can't,  either,  and  no 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


57 


human  power  ever  can,  anyhow,  I  believe,  to  such  a  pass 
have  we  got),  I  would  do  it  this  hour.  I  would  rather  restore 
to  poor  Kick  his  proper  nature,  than  be  endowed  with  all 
the  money  that  dead  suitors,  broken,  heart  and  soul,  upon  the 
wheel  of  Chancery,  have  left  unclaimed  with  the  Accountant- 
General  —  and  that's  money  enough,  my  dear,  to  be  cast  into 
a  pyramid,  in  memory  of  Chancery's  transcendent  wicked- 
ness." 

"  Is  it  possible,  Guardian,"  I  asked,  amazed,  "  that  Richard 
can  be  suspicious  of  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  love,  my  love,"  he  said,  "  it  is  in  the  subtle 
poison  of  such  abuses  to  breed  such  diseases.  His  blood  is 
infected,  and  objects  lose  their  natural  aspects  in  his  sight. 
It  is  not  his  fault." 

"  But  it  is  a  terrible  misfortune,  Guardian." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  misfortune,  little  woman,  to  be  ever  drawn 
within  the  influences  of  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  I  know 
none  greater.  By  little  and  little  he  has  been  induced  to  trust 
in  that  rotten  reed,  and  it  communicates  some  portion  of  its 
rottenness  to  everything  around  him.  But  again,  I  say,  with 
all  my  soul,  we  must  be  patient  with  poor  Rick,  and  not 
blame  him.  What  a  troop  of  fine  fresh  hearts,  like  his,  have 
I  seen  in  my  time  turned  by  the  same  means  ! " 

I  could  not  help  expressing  something  of  my  wonder  and 
regret  that  his  benevolent  disinterested  intentions  had  pros- 
pered so  little. 

"We  must  not  say  so,  Dame  Durden,"  he  cheerfully  re- 
plied; "Ada  is  the  happier,  I  hope;  and  that  is  much.  I 
did  think  that  I  and  both  these  young  creatures  might  be 
friends,  instead  of  distrustful  foes,  and  that  we  might  so  far 
counteract  the  suit,  and  prove  too  strong  for  it.  But  it  was 
too  much  to  expect.  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  was  the  curtain 
of  Rick's  cradle." 

"But,  Guardian,  may  we  not  hope  that  a  little  experience 
will  teach  him  what  a  false  and  wretched  thing  it  is  ?  " 

"We  will  hope  so,  my  Esther,"  said  Mr.  Jarndyce,  "'and 
that  it  may  not  teach  him  so  too  late.  In  any  case  we  must 
not  be  hard  on  him.  There  are  not  many  grown  and  matured 
men  living  while  we  speak,  good  men  too,  who,  if  they  were 


58 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


thrown  into  this  same  court  as  suitors,  would  not  be  vitally 
changed  and  depreciated  within  three  years  —  within  two  — 
within  one.  How  can  we  stand  amazed  at  poor  Rick  ?  A 
young  man  so  unfortunate/'  here  he  fell  into  a  lower  tone,  as 
if  he  were  thinking  aloud,  "  cannot  at  first  believe  (who 
could  ?)  that  Chancery  is  what  it  is.  He  looks  to  it,  flushed 
and  fitfully,  to  do  something  with  his  interests,  and  bring 
them  to  some  settlement.  It  procrastinates,  disappoints,  tries, 
tortures  him ;  wears  out  his  sanguine  hopes  and  patience, 
thread  by  thread ;  but  he  still  looks  to  it,  and  hankers  after 
it,  and  finds  his  whole  world  treacherous  and  hollow.  Well, 
well,  well !    Enough  of  this,  my  dear !  " 

He  had  supported  me,  as  at  first,  all  this  time  ;  and  his 
tenderness  was  so  precious  to  me,  that  I  leaned  my  head  upon 
his  shoulder  and  loved  him  as  if  he  had  been  my  father.  I 
resolved  in  my  own  mind  in  this  little  pause,  by  some  means, 
to  see  Eichard  when  I  grew  strong,  and  try  to  set  him  right. 

"  There  are  better  subjects  than  these/'  said  my  Guardian, 
"  for  such  a  joyful  time  as  the  time  of  our  dear  girl's 
recovery.  And  I  had  a  commission  to  broach  one  of  them,  as 
soon  as  I  should  begin  to  talk.  When  shall  Ada  come  to  see 
you,  my  love  ?  " 

I  had  been  thinking  of  that  too.  A  little  in  connection 
with  the  absent  mirrors,  but  not  much ;  for  I  knew  my  loving 
girl  would  be  changed  by  no  change  in  my  looks. 

"Dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  uas  I  have  shut  her  out  so  long 
—  though  indeed,  indeed,  she  is  like  the  light  to  me  "  — 

"  I  know  it  well,  Dame  Durden,  well." 

He  was  so  good,  his  touch  expressed  such  endearing  com- 
passion and  affection,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  carried  such 
comfort  into  my  heart,  that  I  stopped  for  a  little  while,  quite 
unable  to  go  on.  "  Yes,  yes,  you  are  tired,"  said  he.  "Kest 
a  little." 

"  As  I  have  kept  Ada  out  so  long,"  I  began  afresh  after  a 
short  while,  "  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  my  own  way  a 
little  longer,  Guardian.  It  would  be  best  to  be  away  from 
here  before  I  see  her.  If  Charley  and  I  were  to  go  to  some 
country  lodging  as  soon  as  I  can  move,  and  if  I  had  a  week 
there,  in  which  to  grow  stronger  and  to  be  revived  by  the 


I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


59 


sweet  air,  and  to  look  forward  to  the  happiness  of  having  Ada 
with  me  again,  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  us." 

I  hope  it  was  not  a  poor  thing  in  me  to  wish  to  be  a  little 
more  used  to  my  altered  self,  before  I  met  the  eyes  of  the 
dear  girl  I  longed  so  ardently  to  see  ;  but  it  is  the  truth.  I 
did.  He  understood  me,  I  was  sure  ;  but  I  was  not  afraid  of 
that.    If  it  were  a  poor  thing,  I  knew  he  would  pass  it  over. 

"  Our  spoilt  little  woman,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  shall  have 
her  own  way  even  in  her  inflexibility,  though  at  the  price, 
I  know,  of  tears  down-stairs.  And  see  here  !  Here  is  Boy- 
thorn,  heart  of  chivalry,  breathing  such  ferocious  vows  as 
never  were  breathed  on  paper  before,  that  if  you  don't  go 
and  occupy  his  whole  house,  he  having  already  turned  out 
of  it  expressly  for  that  purpose,  by  Heaven  and  by  earth  he'll 
pull  it  down,  and  not  leave  one  brick  standing  on  another !  " 

And  my  Guardian  put  a  letter  in  my  hand ;  without  any 
ordinary  beginning  such  as  "My  dear  Jarndyce,"  but  rushing 
at  once  into  the  words,  "  I  swear  if  Miss  Summerson  do  not 
come  down  and  take  possession  of  my  house,  which  I  vacate 
for  her  this  day  at  one  o'clock,  p.m."  and  then  with  the 
utmost  seriousness,  and  in  the  most  emphatic  terms,  going  on 
to  make  the  extraordinary  declaration  he  had  quoted.  We 
did  not  appreciate  the  writer  the  less  for  laughing  heartily 
over  it ;  and  we  settled  that  I  should  send  him  a  letter  of 
thanks  on  the  morrow,  and  accept  his  offer.  It  was  a  most 
agreeable  one  to  me ;  for  all  the  places  I  could  have  thought 
of,  I  should  have  liked  to  go  to  none  so  well  as  Chesney 
Wold. 

"Now,  little  housewrife,"  said  my  Guardian,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "  I  was  strictly  timed  before  I  came  up-stairs,  for  you 
must  not  be  tired  too  soon ;  and  my  time  has  waned  away  to 
the  last  minute.  I  have  one  other  petition.  Little  Miss 
Flite,  hearing  a  rumor  that  you  were  ill,  made  nothing  of 
walking  down  here — twenty  miles,  poor  soul,  in  a  pair  of 
dancing-shoes  —  to  inquire.  It  was  Heaven's  mercy  we  were 
at  home,  or  she  would  have  walked  back  again." 

The  old  conspiracy  to  make  me  happy  !  Everybody  seemed 
to  be  in  it ! 

"Now,  pet,"  said  my  guardian,  "if  it  would  not  be  irk- 


60 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


some  to  you  to  admit  the  harmless  little  creature  one  after- 
noon, before  you  save  Boythorn's  otherwise  devoted  house 
from  demolition,  I  believe  you  would  make  her  prouder  and 
better  pleased  with  herself  than  I  —  though  my  eminent 
name  is  Jarndyce  —  could  do  in  a  lifetime." 

I  have  no  doubt  he  knew  there  would  be  something  in  the 
simple  image  of  the  poor  afflicted  creature,  that  would  fall  like 
a  gentle  lesson  on  my  mind  at  that  time.  I  felt  it  as  he 
spoke  to  me.  I  could  not  tell  him  heartily  enough  how 
ready  I  was  to  receive  her.  I  had  always  pitied  her ;  never 
so  much  as  now.  I  had  always  been  glad  of  my  little  power 
to  soothe  her  under  her  calamity  ;  but  never,  never,  half  so 
glad  before. 

We  arranged  a  time  for  Miss  Elite  to  come  out  by  the 
coach,  and  share  my  early  dinner.  When  my  Guardian  left 
me,  I  turned  my  face  away  upon  my  couch,  and  prayed  to  be 
forgiven  if  I,  surrounded  by  such  blessings,  had  magnified  to 
myself  the  little  trial  that  I  had  to  undergo.  The  childish 
prayer  of  that  old  birthday,  when  I  had  aspired  to  be  indus- 
trious, contented,  and  true-hearted,  and  to  do  some  good  to 
some  one,  and  win  some  love  to  myself  if  I  could,  came  back 
into  my  mind  with  a  reproachful  sense  of  all  the  happiness  I 
had  since  enjoyed,  and  all  the  affectionate  hearts  that  had 
been  turned  towards  me.  If  I  were  weak  now,  what  had  I 
profited  by  those  mercies?  I  repeated  the  old  childish 
prayer  in  its  old  childish  words,  and  found  that  its  old  peace 
had  not  departed  from  it. 

My  Guardian  now  came  every  day.  In  a  week  or  so  more, 
I  could  walk  about  our  rooms,  and  hold  long  talks  with  Ada 
from  behind  the  window-curtain.  Yet  I  never  saw  her ;  for  I 
had  not  as  yet  the  courage  to  look  at  the  dear  face,  though 
I  could  have  done  so  easily  without  her  seeing  me. 

On  the  appointed  day  Miss  Flite  arrived.  The  poor  little 
creature  ran  into  my  room  quite  forgetful  of  her  usual  dignity, 
and  crying  from  her  very  heart  of  hearts,  "My  dear  Fitz- 
Jarndyce ! "  fell  upon  my  neck  and  kissed  me  twenty  times. 

"Dear  me!"  said  she,  putting  her  hand  into  her  reticule, 
"I  have  nothing  here  but  documents,  my  dear  Fitz-Jarndyce ; 
I  must  borrow  a  pocket-handkerchief." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


61 


Charley  gave  her  cne,  and  the  good  creature  certainly  made 
use  of  it,  for  she  held  it  to  her  eyes  with  both  hands,  and  sat 
so,  shedding  tears  for  the  next  ten  minutes. 

"With  pleasure,  my  dear  Fitz-Jarndyce,"  she  was  careful 
to  explain.  "Not  the  least  pain.  Pleasure  to  see  you  well 
again.  Pleasure  at  having  the  honor  of  being  admitted  to  see 
you.  I  am  so  much  fonder  of  you,  my  love,  than  of  the 
Chancellor.  Though  I  do  attend  court  regularly.  By-the-by, 
my  dear,  mentioning  pocket-handkerchiefs  "  — 

Miss  Flite  here  looked  at  Charley,  who  had  been  to  meet 
her  at  the  place  where  the  coach  stopped.  Charley  glanced 
at  me,  and  looked  unwilling  to  pursue  the  suggestion. 

"  Ve-ry  right ! "  said  Miss  Flite,  "  ve-ry  correct.  Truly ! 
Highly  indiscreet  of  me  to  mention  it ;  but  my  dear  Miss  Fitz- 
Jarndyce,  I  am  afraid  I  am  at  times  (between  ourselves,  you 
wouldn't  think  it)  a  little  —  rambling  you  know,"  said  Miss 
Flite,  touching  her  forehead.    "Nothing  more." 

"What  were  you  going  to  tell  me  ?"  said  I,  smiling,  for  I 
saw  she  wanted  to  go  on.  "You  have  roused  my  curiosity, 
and  now  you  must  gratify  it." 

Miss  Flite  looked  to  Charley  for  advice  in  this  important 
crisis,  who  said,  "  If  you  please,  ma'am,  you  had  better  tell 
then,"  and  therein  gratified  Miss  Flite  beyond  measure. 

"So  sagacious,  our  young  friend,"  said  she  to  me,  in  her 
mysterious  way.  "Diminutive.  But  ve-ry  sagacious  !  Well, 
my  dear,  it's  a  pretty  anecdote.  Nothing  more.  Still  I  think 
it  charming.  Who  should  follow  us  down  the  road  from 
the  coach,  my  dear,  but  a  poor  person  in  a  very  ungenteel 
bonnet" — 

"Jenny,  if  you  please,  miss,"  said  Charley. 

"Just  so!"  Miss  Flite  acquiesced  with  the  greatest 
suavity.  "Jenny.  Ye-es !  And  what  does  she  tell  our 
young  friend,  but  that  there  has  been  a  lady  with  a  veil 
inquiring  at  her  cottage  after  my  dear  Fitz-Jarndyce's  health, 
and  taking  a  handkerchief  away  with  her  as  a  little  keepsake, 
merely  because  it  was  my  amiable  Fitz-Jarndyce's!  Now, 
you  know,  so  very  prepossessing  in  the  lady  with  the 
veil ! " 

"  If  you  please,  miss,"  said  Charley,  to  whom  I  looked  in 


62 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


some  astonishment,  "  Jenny  says  that  when  her  baby  died, 
you  left  a  handkerchief  there,  and  that  she  put  it  away  and 
kept  it  with  the  baby's  little  things.  I  think,  if  you  please, 
partly  because  it  was  yours,  miss,  and  partly  because  it  had 
covered  the  baby." 

"Diminutive,"  whispered  Miss  Flite,  making  a  variety  of 
motions  about  her  own  forehead  to  express  intellect  in  Charley. 
"  But  ex-ceedingly  sagacious  !  And  so  clear !  My  love,  she's 
clearer  than  any  counsel  I  ever  heard !  " 

"  Yes,  Charley,"  I  returned.    "  I  remember  it.    Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  miss,"  said  Charley,  "  and  that's  the  handkerchief 
the  lady  took.  And  Jenny  wants  you  to  know  that  she 
wouldn't  have  made  away  with  it  herself  for  a  heap  of  money, 
but  that  the  lady  took  it,  and  left  some  money  instead. 
Jenny  don't  know  her  at  all,  if  you  please,  miss." 

«  Why,  who  can  she  be  ?  "  said  I. 

"  My  love,"  Miss  Flite  suggested,  advancing  her  lips  to  my 
ear,  with  her  most  mysterious  look,  "in  my  opinion  —  don't 
mention  this  to  our  diminutive  friend  —  she's  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor's wife.  He's  married,  you  know.  And  I  understand 
she  leads  him  a  terrible  life.  Throws  his  lordship's  papers 
into  the  fire,  my  dear,  if  he  won't  pay  the  jeweller ! " 

I  did  not  think  very  much  about  this  lady  then,  for  I  had 
an  impression  that  it  might  be  Caddy.  Besides,  my  attention 
was  diverted  by  my  visitor,  who  was  cold  after  her  ride,  and 
looked  hungry ;  and  who,  our  dinner  being  brought  in, 
required  some  little  assistance  in  arraying  herself  with  great 
satisfaction  in  a  pitiable  old  scarf  and  a  much-worn  and  often- 
mended  pair  of  gloves,  which  she  had  brought  down  in  a  paper 
parcel.  I  had  to  preside,  too,  over  the  entertainment,  consist- 
ing of  a  dish  of  fish,  a  roast  fowl,  a  sweetbread,  vegetables, 
pudding,  and  Madeira ;  and  it  was  so  pleasant  to  see  how  she 
enjoyed  it,  and  with  what  state  and  ceremony  she  did  honor 
to  it,  that  I  was  soon  thinking  of  nothing  else. 

When  we  had  finished,  and  had  our  little  dessert  before  us, 
embellished  by  the  hands  of  my  dear,  who  would  yield  the 
superintendence  of  everything  prepared  for  me  to  no  one; 
Miss  Flite  was  so  very  chatty  and  happy,  that  I  thought  I 
would  lead  her  to  her  own  history,  as  she  was  always  pleased 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


63 


to  talk  about  herself.  I  began  by  saying,  "You  have  attended 
on  the  Lord  Chancellor  many  years,  Miss  Flite  ?  " 

"0  many,  many,  many  years,  my  dear.  But  I  expect  a 
Judgment.  Shortly." 

There  was  an  anxiety  even  in  her  hopefulness,  that  made 
me  doubtful  if  I  had  done  right  in  approaching  the  subject. 
I  thought  I  would  say  no  more  about  it. 

"  My  father  expected  a  Judgment,"  said  Miss  Flite.  "  My 
brother.  My  sister.  They  all  expected  a  Judgment.  The 
same  that  I  expect." 

"  They  are  all "  — 

"  Ye-es.    Dead  of  course,  my  dear,"  said  she. 

As  I  saw  she  would  go  on,  I  thought  it  best  to  try  to  be 
serviceable  to  her  by  meeting  the  theme,  rather  than  avoid- 
ing it. 

"  Would  it  not  be  wiser,"  said  I,  "  to  expect  this  Judgment 
no  more  ?  " 

"Why,  my  dear,"  she  answered  promptly,  "of  course  it 
would ! " 

"And  to  attend  the  court  no  more  ?  " 

"Equally  of  course,"  said  she.  "Very  wearing  to  be 
always  in  expectation  of  what  never  comes,  my  dear  Fitz- 
Jarndyce  !    Wearing,  I  assure  you,  to  the  bone  ! " 

She  slightly  showed  me  her  arm,  and  it  was  fearfully  thin 
indeed. 

"But,  my  dear,"  she  went  on  in  her  mysterious  way, 
"there's  a  dreadful  attraction  in  the  place.  Hush!  Don't 
mention  it  to  our  diminutive  friend  when  she  comes  in.  Or 
it  may  frighten  her.  With  good  reason.  There's  a  cruel 
attraction  in  the  place,  you  canH  leave  it.  And  you  must 
expect." 

I  tried  to  assure  her  that  this  was  not  so.  She  heard  me 
patiently  and  smilingly,  but  was  ready  with  her  own  answer. 

"Ay,  ay,  ay  !  You  think  so,  because  I  am  a  little  rambling. 
Ve-ry  absurd,  to  be  a  little  rambling,  is  it  not  ?  Ve-ry  con- 
fusing, too.  To  the  head.  I  find  it  so.  But,  my  dear,  I  have 
been  there  many  years,  and  I  have  noticed.  It's  the  Mace  and 
Seal  upon  the  table." 

What  could  they  do,  did  she  think  ?    I  mildly  asked  her. 


64 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Draw/'  returned  Miss  Flite.  "  Draw  people  on,  my  dear. 
Draw  peace  out  of  them.  Sense  out  of  them.  Good  looks 
out  of  them.  Good  qualities  out  of  them.  I  have  felt  them 
even  drawing  my  rest  away  in  the  night.  Cold  and  glittering 
devils ! " 

She  tapped  me  several  times  upon  the  arm,  and  nodded 
good-humoredly,  as  if  she  were  anxious  I  should  understand 
that  I  had  no  cause  to  fear  her,  though  she  spoke  so  gloomily, 
and  confided  these  awful  secrets  to  me. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  she.    "I'll  tell  you  my  own  case. 
Before  they  ever  drew  me  —  before  I  had  ever  seen  them  — 
what  was  it  I  used  to  do  ?    Tambourine-playing?    No,  Tam- 
bour work.    I  and  my  sister  worked  at  tambour  work.  Our 
father  and  our  brother  had  a  builder's  business.    We  all  lived 
together.    Ve-ry  respectably,  my  dear !    First,  our  father  was 
drawn  —  slowly.     Home  was  drawn  with  him.    In  a  few 
years,  he  was  a  fierce,  sour,  angry  bankrupt,  without  a  kind''  j 
word  or  a  kind  look  for  any  one.    He  had  been  so  different,  ; 
Fitz-Jarndyce.    He  was  drawn  to  a  debtor's  prison.  There 
he  died.    Then  our  brother  was  drawn  —  swiftly  —  to  drunk-  ! 
enness.    And  rags.    And  death.    Then  my  sister  was  drawn.  t 
Hush  !    Never  ask  to  what !    Then  I  was  ill,  and  in  misery ; 
and  heard,  as  I  had  often  heard  before,  that  this  was  all  the  ' 
work  of  Chancery.    When  I  got  better,  I  went  to  look  at  the  ' 
monster.    And  then  I  found  out  how  it  was,  and  I  was  drawn  ' 
to  stay  there." 

Having  got  over  her  own  short  narrative,  in  the  delivery  of  [  I 
which  she  had  spoken  in  a  low,  strained  voice,  as  if  the  shock  )\ 
were  fresh  upon  her,  she  gradually  resumed  her  usual  air  of  ■ 
amiable  importance. 

"  You  don't  quite  credit  me,  my  dear !  Well  well !  You  | 
will,  some  day.  I  am  a  little  rambling.  But  I  have  noticed. 
I  have  seen  many  new  faces  come,  unsuspicious,  within  the 
influence  of  the  Mace  and  Seal,  in  these  many  years.  As  my  j 
father's  came  there.  As  my  brother's.  As  my  sister's.  As  j 
my  own.  I  hear  Conversation  Kenge,  and  the  rest  of  them,  j 
say  to  the  new  faces,  6  Here's  little  Miss  Flite.  0  you  are  j 
new  here ;  and  you  must  come  and  be  presented  to  little  Miss  I 
Flite  ! '    Ve-ry  good.    Proud  I  am  sure  to  have  the  honor ! 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


65 


And  we  all  laugh.  But,  Fitz-Jarndyce,  I  know  what  will 
happen.  I  know,  far  better  than  they  do,  when  the  attraction 
has  begun.  I  know  the  signs,  my  dear.  I  saw  them  begin 
in  Gridley.  And  I  saw  them  end.  Fitz-Jarndyce,  my  love," 
speaking  low  again,  "I  saw  them  beginning  in  our  friend  the 
Ward  in  Jarndyce.  Let  some  one  hold  him  back.  Or  he'll 
be  drawn  to  ruin." 

She  looked  at  me  in  silence  for  some  moments,  with  her 
face  gradually  softening  into  a  smile.  Seeming  to  fear  that 
she  had  been  too  gloomy,  and  seeming  also  to  lose  the  con- 
nection in  her  mind,  she  said,  politely,  as  she  sipped  her  glass 
of  wine,  "  Yes,  my  dear,  as  I  was  saying,  I  expect  a  Judg- 
ment. Shortly.  Then  I  shall  release  my  birds,  you  know, 
and  confer  estates." 

I  was  much  impressed  by  her  allusion  to  Richard,  and  by 
the  sad  meaning,  so  sadly  illustrated  in  her  poor  pinched  form 
that  made  its  way  through  all  her  incoherence.  But  happily 
for  her,  she  was  quite  complacent  again  now,  and  beamed  with 
nods  and  smiles. 

"  But  my  dear,"  she  said,  gayly,  reaching  another  hand  to 
put  it  upon  mine.  "  You  have  not  congratulated  me  on  my 
physician.    Positively  not  once,  yet !  " 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  I  did  not  quite  know  what 
she  meant. 

"  My  physician,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  my  dear,  who  was  so 
exceedingly  attentive  to  me.  Though  his  services  were  ren- 
dered quite  gratuitously.  Until  the  Day  of  Judgment.  I 
mean  the  judgment  that  will  dissolve  the  spell  upon  me  of  the 
Mace  and  Seal." 

"Mr.  Woodcourt  is  so  far  away  now,"  said  I,  "that  I 
thought  the  time  for  such  congratulation  was  past,  Miss 
Flite." 

"But,  my  child,"  she  returned,  "is  it  possible  that  you 
don't  know  what  has  happened  ?  " 
"No,"  said  I. 

"Not  what  everybody  has  been  talking  of,  my  beloved  Fitz- 
Jarndyce  ! " 

"  No,"  said  I,    "  You  forget  how  long  I  have  been  here." 
"  True  !    My  dear,  for  the  moment  —  true.    I  blame  myself. 

VOL.  II. 


66 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


But  my  memory  has  been  drawn  out  of  me,  with  everything 
else,  by  what  I  mentioned.  Ve-ry  strong  influence,  is  it  not? 
Well,  my  dear,  there  has  been  a  terrible  shipwreck  over  in 
those  East-Indian  seas." 

"  Mr.  Woodcourt  shipwrecked  ! " 

"  Don't  be  agitated,  my  dear.  He  is  safe.  An  awful  scene. 
Death  in  all  shapes.  Hundreds  of  dead  and  dying.  Fire, 
storm,  and  darkness.  Numbers  of  the  drowning  thrown  upon 
a  rock.  There,  and  through  it  all,  my  dear  physician  was  a 
hero.  Calm  and  brave,  through  everything.  Saved  many 
lives,  never  complained  in  hunger  and  thirst,  wrapped  naked 
people  in  his  spare  clothes,  took  the  lead,  showed  them  what 
to  do,  governed  them,  tended  the  sick,  buried  the  dead,  and 
brought  the  poor  survivors  safely  off  at  last !  My  dear,  the 
poor  emaciated  creatures  all  but  worshipped  him.  They  fell 
down  at  his  feet,  when  they  got  to  the  land,  and  blessed  him. 
The  whole  country  rings  with  it.  Stay !  Where's  my  bag  of 
documents  ?  I  have  got  it  there,  and  you  shall  read  it,  you 
shall  read  it !  " 

And  I  did  read  all  the  noble  history ;  though  very  slowly 
and  imperfectly  then,  for  my  eyes  were  so  dimmed  that  I 
could  not  see  the  words,  and  I  cried  so  much  that  I  was  many 
times  obliged  to  lay  down  the  long  account  she  had  cut  out  of 
the  newspaper.  I  felt  so  triumphant  ever  to  have  known  the 
man  who  had  done  such  generous  and  gallant  deeds  ;  I  felt 
such  glowing  exultation  in  his  renown  ;  I  so  admired  and  loved 
what  he  had  done ;  that  I  envied  the  storm-worn  people  who 
had  fallen  at  his  feet  and  blessed  him  as  their  preserver.  I 
could  myself  have  kneeled  down  then,  so  far  away,  and  blessed 
him,  in  my  rapture  that  he  should  be  so  truly  good  and  brave. 
I  felt  that  no  one  —  mother,  sister,  wife  —  could  honor  him 
more  than  I.    I  did,  indeed  ! 

My  poor  little  visitor  made  me  a  present  of  the  account,  and 
when,  as  the  evening  began  to  close  in,  she  rose  to  take  her 
leave,  lest  she  should  miss  the  coach  by  which  she  must 
return,  she  was  still  full  of  the  shipwreck,  which  I  had  not  yet 
sufficiently  composed  myself  to  understand  in  all  its  details. 

"  My  dear,"  said  she,  as  she  carefully  folded  up  her  scarf 
and  gloves,  "  my  brave  physician  ought  to  have  a  Title 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


G7 


bestowed  upon  him.  And  no  doubt  he  will.  You  are  of  that 
opinion  ?  " 

That  he  well  deserved  one,  yes.  That  he  would  ever  have 
one,  no. 

"  Why  not,  Eitz-Jarndyce  ?  "  she  asked,  rather  sharply. 

I  said  it  was  not  the  custom  in  England  to  confer  titles  on 
men  distinguished  by  peaceful  services,  however  good  and 
great ;  unless  occasionally,  when  they  consisted  of  the  accu- 
mulation of  some  very  large  amount  of  money. 

"  Why,  good  gracious,"  said  Miss  Flite,  "  how  can  you  say 
that  ?  Surely  you  know,  my  dear,  that  all  the  greatest  orna- 
ments of  England  in  knowledge,  imagination,  active  humanity, 
and  improvement  of  every  sort,  are  added  to  its  nobility ! 
Look  round  you,  my  dear,  and  consider.  You  must  be 
rambling  a  little  now,  I  think,  if  you  don't  know  that  this  is 
the  great  reason  why  titles  will  always  last  in  the  land ! " 

I  am  afraid  she  believed  what  she  said ;  for  there  were 
moments  when  she  was  very  mad  indeed. 

And  now  I  must  part  with  the  little  secret  I  have  thus  far 
tried  to  keep.  I  had  thought  sometimes,  that  Mr.  Woodcourt 
loved  me  ;  and  that  if  he  had  been  richer,  he  would  perhaps 
have  told  me  that  he  loved  me,  before  he  went  away.  I  had 
thought,  sometimes,  that  if  he  had  done  so,  I  should  have  been 
glad  of  it.  But,  how  much  better  it  was  now,  that  this  had 
never  happened !  What  should  I  have  suffered,  if  I  had  had 
to  write  to  him,  and  tell  him  that  the  poor  face  he  had  known 
as  mine  was  quite  gone  from  me,  and  that  I  freely  released 
him  from  his  bondage  to  one  whom  he  had  never  seen ! 

0,  it  was  so  much  better  as  it  was !  With  a  great  pang 
mercifully  spared  me,  I  could  take  back  to  my  heart  my 
childish  prayer  to  be  all  he  had  so  brightly  shown  him- 
self ;  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  undone  :  no  chain  for 
me  to  break,  or  for  him  to  drag ;  and  I  could  go,  please  God, 
my  lowly  way  along  the  path  of  duty,  and  he  could  go  his 
nobler  way  upon  its  broader  road  ;  and  though  we  were  apart 
upon  the  journey,  I  might  aspire  to  meet  him,  unselfishly, 
innocently,  better  far  than  he  had  thought  me  when  I  found 
some  favor  in  his  eyes,  at  the  journey's  end. 


68 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CHESNEY  WOLD. 

Charley  and  I  did  not  set  off  alone  upon  our  expedition 
into  Lincolnshire.  My  Guardian  had  made  up  his  mind  not 
to  lose  sight  of  me  until  I  was  safe  in  Mr.  Boythorn's  house  ; 
so  he  accompanied  us,  and  we  were  two  days  upon  the  road. 
I  found  every  breath  of  air,  and  every  scent,  and  every  flower 
and  leaf  and  blade  of  grass,  and  every  passing  cloud,  and 
everything  in  nature,  more  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  me 
than  I  have  ever  found  it  yet.  This  was  my  first  gain  from  my 
illness.  How  little  I  had  lost,  when  the  wide  world  was  so 
full  of  delight  for  me. 

My  Guardian  intending  to  go  back  immediately,  we  ap-  < 
pointed,  on  our  way  down,  a  day  when  my  dear  girl  should  | 
come.  I  wrote  her  a  letter,  of  which  he  took  charge;  and  ! 
he  left  us  within  half  an  hour  of  our  arrival  at  our  destina-  ; 
tion,  on  a  delightful  evening  in  the  early  summer-time. 

If  a  good  fairy  had  built  the  house  for  me  with  a  wave  of  ! 
her  wand,  and  I  had  been  a  princess  and  her  favored  god-  \ 
child,  I  could  not  have  been  more  considered  in  it.    So  many  j 
preparations  were   made  for  me,  and   such   an   endearing  • 
remembrance  was  shown  of  all  my  little  tastes  and  likings,  j 
that  I  could  have  sat  down,  overcome,  a  dozen  times,  before  I  ( 
had  revisited  half  the  rooms.    I  did  better  than  that,  however, 
by  showing  them  all  to  Charley  instead.    Charley's  delight 
calmed  mine ;  and  after  we  had  had  a  walk  in  the  garden, 
and  Charley  had  exhausted  her  whole  vocabulary  of  admiring 
expressions,  I  was  as  tranquilly  happy  as  I  ought  to  have 
been.    It  was  a  great  comfort  to  be  able  to  say  to  myself  after 
tea,  "  Esther,  my  dear,  I  think  you  are  quite  sensible  enough  I 
to  sit  down  now,  and  write  a  note  of  thanks  to  your  host." 
He  had  left  a  note  of  welcome  for  me,  as  sunny  as  his  own 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


69 


face,  and  had  confided  his  bird  to  my  care,  which  I  knew  to 
be  his  highest  mark  of  confidence.  Accordingly  I  wrote  a 
little  note  to  him  in  London,  telling  him  how  all  his  favorite 
plants  and  trees  were  looking,  and  how  the  most  astonishing 
of  birds  had  chirped  the  honors  of  the  house  to  me  in  the 
most  hospitable  manner,  and  how,  after  singing  on  my 
shoulder,  to  the  inconceivable  rapture  of  my  little  maid,  he 
was  then  at  roost  in  the  usual  corner  of  his  cage,  but  whether 
dreaming  or  no  I  could  not  report.  My  note  finished  and  sent 
off  to  the  post,  I  made  myself  very  busy  in  unpacking  and 
arranging ;  and  I  sent  Charley  to  bed  in  good  time,  and  told 
her  I  should  want  her  no  more  that  night. 

For  I  had  not  yet  looked  in  the  glass,  and  had  never  asked 
to  have  my  own  restored  to  me.  I  knew  this  to  be  a  weak- 
ness which  must  be  overcome ;  but  I  had  always  said  to  my- 
self that  I  would  begin  afresh,  when  I  got  to  where  I  now  was. 
Therefore  I  had  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  therefore  I  said,  now 
alone,  in  my  own  room,  "  Esther,  if  you  are  to  be  happy,  if 
you  are  to  have  any  right  to  pray  to  be  true-hearted,  you  must 
keep  your  word,  my  dear."  I  was  quite  resolved  to  keep  it ; 
but  I  sat  down  for  a  little  while  first,  to  reflect  upon  all  my 
blessings.  And  then  I  said  my  prayers,  and  thought  a  little 
more. 

My  hair  had  not  been  cut  off,  though  it  had  been  in  danger 
more  than  once.  It  was  long  and  thick.  I  let  it  down,  and 
shook  it  out,  and  went  up  to  the  glass  upon  the  dressing-table. 
There  was  a  little  muslin  curtain  drawn  across  it.  I  drew  it 
back :  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  through  such  a  veil  of 
my  own  hair,  that  I  could  see  nothing  else.  Then  I  put  my 
hair  aside,  and  looked  at  the  reflection  in  the  mirror ;  encour- 
aged by  seeing  how  placidly  it  looked  at  me.  I  was  very  much 
changed  —  0  very,  very  much.  At  first  my  face  was  so  strange 
to  me,  that  I  think  I  should  have  put  my  hands  before  it  and 
started  back,  but  for  the  encouragement  I  have  mentioned. 
Very  soon  it  became  more  familiar,  and  then  I  knew  the  extent 
of  the  alteration  in  it  better  than  I  had  done  at  first.  It  was 
not  like  what  I  had  expected ;  but  I  had  expected  nothing 
definite,  and  I  dare  say  anything  definite  would  have  sur- 
prised me. 


70  BLEAK  HOUSE. 


I  had  never  been  a  beauty,  and  had  never  thought  myself 
one ;  but  I  had  been  very  different  from  this.  It  was  all  gone 
now.  Heaven  was  so  good  to  me,  that  I  could  let  it  go  with  a 
few  not  bitter  tears,  and  could  stand  there  arranging  my  hair 
for  the  night  quite  thankfully. 

One  thing  troubled  me,  and  I  considered  it  for  a  long  time 
before  I  went  to  sleep.  I  had  kept  Mr.  Woodcourt's  flowers. 
When  they  were  withered  I  had  dried  them,  and  put  them  in 
a  book  that  I  was  fond  of.  Nobody  knew  this,  not  even  Ada. 
I  was  doubtful  whether  I  had  a  right  to  preserve  what  he  had 
sent  to  one  so  different  — whether  it  was  generous  towards  him 
to  do  it.  I  wished  to  be  generous  to  him,  even  in  the  secret 
depths  of  my  heart,  which  he  would  never  know,  because  I 
could  have  loved  him  —  could  have  been  devoted  to  him.  At 
last  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  might  keep  them ;  if  ■ 
treasured  them  only  as  a  remembrance  of  what  was  irrevocably 
past  and  gone,  never  to  be  looked  back  on  any  more,  in  any* 
Other  light.  I  hope  this  may  not  seem  trivial.  I  was  very 
much  in  earnest. 

I  took  care  to  be  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  to  be  before^ 
the  glass  when  Charley  came  in  on  tiptoe. 

"Dear,  dear,  miss!"  cried  Charley,  starting.  "Is  that- 
you?" 

"Yes,  Charley,"  said  I,  quietly  putting  up  my  hair.  "And, 
I  am  very  well  indeed,  and  very  happy." 

I  saw  it  was  a  weight  off  Charley's  mind,  but  it  was  a  greater] 
weight  off  mine.  I  knew  the  worst  now,  and  was  composed  til 
it.  \  shall  not  conceal,  as  I  go  on,  the  weaknesses  I  could  nol 
quite  conquer;  but  they  always  passed  from  me  soon,  and  thej 
happier  frame  of  mind  stayed  by  me  faithfully. 

Wishing  to  be  fully  re-established  in  my  strength  and  my 
good  spirits  before  Ada  came,  I  now  laid  down  a  little,  series 
of  plans  with  Charley  for  being  in  the  fresh  air  all  day  long. 
We  were  to  be  out  before  breakfast,  and  were  to  dine  early, 
and  were  to  be  out  again  before  and  after  dinner,  and  were  to 
walk  in  the  garden  after  tea,  and  were  to  go  to  rest  betimes, 
and  were  to  climb  every  hill  and  explore  every  road,  lane,  and 
field  in  the  neigborhood.  As  to  restoratives  and  strengthen- 
ing  delicacies,  Mr.  Boythorn's  good  housekeeper  was  forever 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


71 


trotting  about  with  something  to  eat  or  drink  in  her  hand ;  I 
could  not  even  be  heard  of  as  resting  in  the  Park,  but  she 
would  come  trotting  after  me  with  a  basket,  her  cheerful  face 
shining  with  a  lecture  on  the  importance  of  frequent  nourish- 
ment. Then  there  was  a  pony  expressly  for  my  riding,  a 
chubby  pony,  with  a  short  neck  and  a  mane  all  over  his  eyes, 
who  could  canter  —  when  he  would  —  so  easily  and  quietly,  that 
he  was  a  treasure.  In  a  very  few  days,  he  would  come  to  me 
in  the  paddock  when  I  called  him,  and  eat  out  of  my  hand,  and 
follow  me  about.  We  arrived  at  such  a  capital  understanding, 
that  when  he  was  jogging  with  me  lazily,  and  rather  obsti- 
nately, down  some  shady  lane,  if  I  patted  his  neck,  and  said, 
"  Stubbs,  I  am  surprised  you  don't  canter  when  you  know  how 
much  I  like  it ;  and  I  think  you  might  oblige  me,  for  you  are 
only  getting  stupid  and  going  to  sleep,"  he  would  give  his  head 
a  comical  shake  or  two,  and  set  off  directly ;  while  Charley 
would  stand  still  and  laugh  with  such  enjoyment,  that  her 
laughter  was  like  music.  I  don't  know  who  had  given  Stubbs 
his  name,  but  it  seemed  to  belong  to  him  as  naturally  as  his 
rough  coat.  Once  we  put  him  in  a  little  chaise,  and  drove  him 
triumphantly  through  the  green  lanes  for  five  miles ;  but  all 
at  once,  as  we  were  extolling  him  to  the  skies,  he  seemed  to 
take  it  ill  that  he  should  have  been  accompanied  so  far  by  the 
circle  of  tantalizing  little  gnats,  that  had  been  hovering  round 
and  round  his  ears  the  whole  way  without  appearing  to  advance 
an  inch ;  and  stopped  to  think  about  it.  I  suppose  he  came  to 
the  decision  that  it  was  not  to  be  borne  ;  for  he  steadily  refused 
to  move,  until  I  gave  the  reins  to  Charley  and  got  out  and 
walked;  when  he  followed  me  with  a  sturdy  sort  of  good- 
humor,  putting  his  head  under  my  arm,  and  rubbing  his  ear 
against  my  sleeve.  It  was  in  vain  for  ine  to  say,  "Now, 
Stubbs,  I  feel  quite  sure  from  what  I  know  of  you,  that  you 
will  go  on  if  I  ride  a  little  while ; "  for  the  moment  I  left  him, 
he  stood  stock  still  again.  Consequently  I  was  obliged  to  lead 
the  way,  as  before  ;  and  in  this  order  we  returned  home,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  village. 

Charley  and  I  had  reason  to  call  it  the  most  friendly  of 
villages,  I  am  sure  ;  for  in  a  week's  time,  the  people  were  so 
glad  to  see  us  go  by,  though  ever  so  frequently  in  the  course 


72 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


of  a  day,  that  there  were  faces  of  greeting  in  every  cottage, 
I  had  known  many  of  the  grown  people  before,  and  almost  all 
the  children ;  but  now  the  very  steeple  began  to  wear  a  famil- 
iar and  affectionate  look.  Among  my  new  friends  was  an  old 
old  woman  who  lived  in  such  a  little  thatched  and  white- 
washed dwelling,  that  when  the  outside  shutter  was  turned  up 
on  its  hinges,  it  shut  up  the  whole  house-front.  This  old  lady 
had  a  grandson  who  was  a  sailor ;  and  I  wrote  a  letter  to  him 
for  her,  and  drew  at  the  top  of  it  the  chimney-corner  in  which 
she  had  brought  him  up,  and  where  his  old  stool  yet  occupied 
its  old  place.  This  was  considered  by  the  whole  village  the 
most  wonderful  achievement  in  the  world;  but  when  an 
answer  came  back  all  the  way  from  Plymouth,  in  which  he 
mentioned  that  he  was  going  to  take  the  picture  all  the  way 
to  America,  and  from  America  would  write  again,  I  got  all  the 
credit  that  ought  to  have  been  given  to  the  Post-office,  and  was 
invested  with  the  merit  of  the  whole  system. 

Thus,  what  with  being  so  much  in  the  air,  playing  with  so 
many  children,  gossiping  with  so  many  people,  sitting  on  invi- 
tation in  so  many  cottages,  going  on  with  Charley's  education, 
and  writing  long  letters  to  Ada  every  day,  I  had  scarcely  any 
time  to  think  about  that  little  loss  of  mine,  and  was  almost 
always  cheerful.  If  I  did  think  of  it  at  odd  moments  now 
and  then,  I  had  only  to  be  busy  and  forget  it.  I  felt  it  more 
than  I  had  hoped  I  should,  once,  when  a  child  said,  "  Mother, 
why  is  the  lady  not  a  pretty  lady  now,  like  she  used  to  be  ?  " 
But  when  I  found  the  child  was  not  less  fond  of  me,  and  drew 
its  soft  hand  over  my  face  with  a  kind  of  pitying  protection 
in  its  touch,  that  soon  set  me  up  again.  There  were  many 
little  occurrences  which  suggested  to  me,  with  great  consola- 
tion, how  natural  it  is  to  gentle  hearts  to  be  considerate  and 
delicate  towards  any  inferiority.  One  of  these  particularly 
touched  me.  I  happened  to  stroll  into  the  little  church  when 
a  marriage  was  just  concluded,  and  the  young  couple  had  to 
sign  the  register.  The  bridegroom,  to  whom  the  pen  was 
handed  first,  made  a  rude  cross  for  his  mark ;  the  bride,  who 
came  next,  did  the  same.  Now,  I  had  known  the  bride  when 
I  was  last  there,  not  only  as  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  place,  but 
as  having  quite  distinguished  herself  in  the  school ;  and  I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


73 


could  not  help  looking  at  her  with  some  surprise.  She  came 
aside  and  whispered  to  me,  while  tears  of  honest  love  and 
admiration  stood  in  her  bright  eyes,  "He's  a  dear  good  fellow, 
miss  ;  but  he  can't  write,  yet  —  he's  going  to  learn  of  me  — ■ 
and  I  wouldn't  shame  him  for  the  world  !  "  Why,  what  had 
I  to  fear,  I  thought,  when  there  was  this  nobility  in  the  soul 
of  a  laboring  man's  daughter  ! 

The  air  blew  as  freshly  and  revivingly  upon  me  as  it  had 
ever  blown,  and  the  healthy  color  came  into  my  new  face  as 
it  had  come  into  my  old  one.  Charley  was  wonderful  to  see, 
she  was  so  radiant  and  so  rosy ;  and  we  both  enjoyed  the 
whole  day,  and  slept  soundly  the  whole  night. 

There  was  a  favorite  spot  of  mine  in  the  park  woods  of 
Chesney  Wold,  where  a  seat  had  been  erected  commanding  a 
lovely  view.  The  wood  had  been  cleared  and  opened,  to 
improve  this  point  of  sight ;  and  the  bright  sunny  landscape 
beyond,  was  so  beautiful  that  I  rested  there  at  least  once  every 
day.  A  picturesque  part  of  the  Hall,  called  the  Ghost's  Walk, 
was  seen  to  advantage  from  this  higher  ground ;  and  the  star- 
tling name,  and  old  legend  in  the  Dedlock  family  which  I  had 
heard  from  Mr.  Boy  thorn,  accounting  for  it,  mingled  with  the 
view  and  gave  it  something  of  a  mysterious  interest,  in  addi- 
tion to  its  real  charms.  There  was  a  bank  here,  too,  which 
was  a  famous  one  for  violets ;  and  as  it  was  a  daily  delight  of 
Charley's  to  gather  wild  flowers,  she  took  as  much  to  the  spot 
as  I  did. 

It  would  be  idle  to  inquire  now  why  I  never  went  close  to 
the  house,  or  never  went  inside  it.  The  family  were  not 
there,  I  had  heard  on  my  arrival,  and  were  not  expected.  I 
was  far  from  being  incurious  or  uninterested  about  the  build- 
ing ;  on  the  contrary,  I  often  sat  in  this  place,  wondering  how 
the  rooms  ranged,  and  whether  any  echo  like  a  footstep  really 
did  resound  at  times,  as  the  story  said,  upon  the  lonely  Ghost's 
Walk.  The  indefinable  feeling  with  which  Lady  Dedlock  had 
impressed  me,  may  have  had  some  influence  in  keeping  me 
from  the  house  even  when  she  was  absent.  I  am  not  sure. 
Her  face  and  figure  were  associated  with  it  naturally ;  but  I 
3annot  say  that  they  repelled  me  from  it,  though  something 
iid.    For  whatever  reason  or  no  reason,  I  had  never  once 


74 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


gone  near  ity  down  to  the  day  at  which  my  story  now 
arrives. 

I  was  resting  at  my  favorite  point,  after  a  long  ramble, 
and  Charley  was  gathering  violets  at  a  little  distance  from 
me.  I  had  been  looking  at  the  Ghost's  Walk  lying  in  a  deep 
shade  of  masonry  afar  off,  and  picturing  to  myself  the  female 
shape  that  was  said  to  haunt  it,  when  I  became  aware  of  a 
figure  approaching  through  the  wood.  The  perspective  was 
so  long,  and  so  darkened  by  leaves,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
branches  on  the  ground  made  it  so  much  more  intricate  to  the 
eye,  that  at  first  I  could  not  discern  what  figure  it  was.  By 
little  and  little,  it  revealed  itself  to  be  a  woman's  —  a  lady's 

 Lady  Dedlock's.    She  was  alone,  and  coming  to  where  I 

sat  with  a  much  quicker  step,  I  observed  to  my  surprise,  than 
was  usual  with  her. 

I  was  fluttered  by  her  being  unexpectedly  so  near  (she  was 
almost  within  speaking  distance  before  I  knew  her),  and* 
would  have  risen  to  continue  my  walk.  But  I  could  not.  I 
was  rendered  motionless.  Not  so  much  by  her  hurried  ges- 
ture of  entreaty,  not  so  much  by  her  quick  advance  and  out- 
stretched hands,  not  so  much  by  the  great  change  in  her 
manner  and  the  absence  of  her  haughty  self-restraint,  as  by  a 
something  in  her  face  that  I  had  pined  for  and  dreamed  of 
when  I  was  a  little  child;  something  I  had  never  seen  in  any 
face ;  something  I  had  never  seen  in  hers  before. 

A  dread  and  faintness  fell  upon  me,  and  I  called  to  Charley. 
Lady  Dedlock  stopped,  upon  the  instant,  and  changed  back 
almost  to  what  I  had  known  her. 

"  Miss  Summerson,  I  am  afraid  I  have  startled  you,"  she 
said,  now  advancing  slowly.  "You  can  scarcely  be  strong 
yet.  You  have  been  very  ill,  I  know.  I  have  been  much 
concerned  to  hear  it." 

I  could  no  more  have  removed  my  eyes  from  her  pale  face, 
than  I  could  have  stirred  from  the  bench  on  which  I  sat.  She 
gave  me  her  hand;  and  its  deadly  coldness,  so  at  variance 
with  the  enforced  composure  of  her  features,  deepened  the 
fascination  that  overpowered  me.  I  cannot  say  what  was  in 
my  whirling  thoughts. 

"  You  are  recovering  again  ?  "  she  asked  kindly. 


LADY  DEDLOCK  IN  THE  WOOD. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUHOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


75 


"  I  was  quite  well  but  a  moment  ago,  Lady  Dedlock." 

"  Is  this  your  young  attendant  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  send  her  on  before,  and  walk  towards  your 
house  with  me  ?  " 

"Charley,"  said  I,  "take  your  flowers  home,  and  I  will 
follow  you  directly." 

Charley,  with  her  best  courtesy,  blushingly  tied  on  her 
bonnet,  and  went  her  way.  When  she  was  gone,  Lady 
Dedlock  sat  down  on  the  seat  beside  me. 

I  cannot  tell  in  any  words  what  the  state  of  my  mind  was, 
when  I  saw  in  her  hand  my  handkerchief,  with  which  I  had 
covered  the  dead  baby. 

I  looked  at  her ;  but  I  could  not  see  her,  I  could  not  hear 
her,  I  could  not  draw  my  breath.  The  beating  of  my  heart 
was  so  violent  and  wild,  that  I  felt  as  if  my  life  were  breaking 
from  me.  But  when  she  caught  me  to  her  breast,  kissed  me, 
wept  over  me,  compassionated  me,  and  called  me  back  to  my- 
self, when  she  fell  down  on  her  knees  and  cried  to  me,  "  0 
my  child,  my  child,  I  am  your  wicked  and  unhappy  mother ! 
0  try  to  forgive  me!"  —  when  I  saw  her  at  my  feet  on  the 
bare  earth  in  her  great  agony  of  mind,  I  felt,  through  all  my 
tumult  of  emotion,  a  burst  of  gratitude  to  the  providence  of 
God  that  I  was  so  changed  as  that  I  never  could  disgrace  her 
by  any  trace  of  likeness ;  as  that  nobody  could  ever  now  look 
at  me,  and  look  at  her,  and  remotely  think  of  any  near  tie 
between  us. 

I  raised  my  mother  up,  praying  and  beseeching  her  not  to 
stoop  before  me  in  such  affliction  and  humiliation.  I  did  so, 
in  broken  incoherent  words ;  for,  besides  the  trouble  I  was  in, 
it  frightened  me  to  see  her  at  my  feet.  I  told  her  —  or  I  tried 
to  tell  her  —  that  if  it  were  for  me,  her  child,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances to  take  upon  me  to  forgive  her,  I  did  it,  and  had 
done  it,  many,  many  years.  I  told  her  that  my  heart  over- 
flowed with  love  for  her ;  that  it  was  natural  love,  which 
nothing  in  the  past  had  changed,  or  could  change.  That  it 
was  not  for  me,  then  resting  for  the  first  time  on  my  mother's 
bosom,  to  take  her  to  account  for  having  given  me  life ;  but 
that  my  duty  was  to  bless  her  and  receive  her,  though  the 


76 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


whole  world  turned  from  her,  and  that  I  only  asked  her  leave 
to  do  it.  I  held  my  mother  in  my  embrace,  and  she  held  me 
in  hers ;  and  among  the  still  woods  in  the  silence  of  the 
summer  day,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  our  two  troubled 
minds  that  was  not  at  peace. 

"  To  bless  and  receive  me,"  groaned  my  mother,  "  it  is  far 
too  late.  I  must  travel  my  dark  road  alone,  and  it  will  lead 
me  where  it  will.  From  day  to  day,  sometimes  from  hour  to 
hour,  I  do  not  see  the  way  before  my  guilty  feet.  This  is  the 
earthly  punishment  I  have  brought  upon  myself.  I  bear  it, 
and  I  hide  it." 

Even  in  the  thinking  of  her  endurance,  she  drew  her 
habitual  air  of  proud  indifference  about  her  like  a  veil,  though 
she  soon  cast  it  off  again. 

"  I  must  keep  this  secret,  if  by  any  means  it  can  be  kept, 
not  wholly  for  myself.  I  have  a  husband,  wretched  and  dis- 
honoring creature  that  I  am  ! " 

These  words  she  uttered  with  a  suppressed  cry  of  despair, 
more  terrible  in  its  sound  than  any  shriek.  Covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  she  shrunk  down  in  my  embrace  as  if  she 
were  unwilling  that  I  should  touch  her ;  nor  could  I,  by  my 
utmost  persuasions,  or  by  any  endearments  I  could  use,  pre- 
vail upon  her  to  rise.  She  said,  No,  no,  no,  she  could  only 
speak  to  me  so ;  she  must  be  proud  and  disdainful  everywhere 
else ;  she  would  be  humbled  and  ashamed  there,  in  the  only 
natural  moments  of  her  life. 

My  unhappy  mother  told  me  that  in  my  illness  she  had 
been  nearly  frantic.  She  had  but  then  known  that  her  child 
was  living.  She  could  not  have  suspected  me  to  be  that  child 
before.  She  had  followed  me  down  here,  to  speak  to  me  but 
once  in  all  her  life.  We  never  could  associate,  never  could 
communicate,  never  probably  from  that  time  forth  could  inter- 
change another  word,  on  earth.  She  put  into  my  hands  a 
letter  she  had  written  for  my  reading  only ;  and  said,  when  I 
had  read  it,  and  destroyed  it  —  but  not  so  much  for  her  sake, 
since  she  asked  nothing,  as  for  her  husband's  and  my  own  - 
I  must  evermore  consider  her  as  dead.  If  I  could  believe  that 
she  loved  me,  in  this  agony  in  which  I  saw  her,  with 
mother's  love,  she  asked  me  to  do  that ;  for  then  I  might 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


77 


think  of  her  with  a  greater  pity,  imagining  what  she  suffered. 
She  had  put  herself  beyond  all  hope,  and  beyond  all  help. 
Whether  she  preserved  her  secret  until  death,  or  it  came  to  be 
discovered  and  she  brought  dishonor  and  disgrace  upon  the 
name  she  had  taken,  it  was  her  solitary  struggle  always ;  and 
no  affection  could  come  near  her,  and  no  human  creature  could 
render  her  any  aid. 

"But  is  the  secret  safe  so  far  ?  "  I  asked.  "Is  it  safe  now, 
dearest  mother  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  my  mother.  "It  has  been  very  near  dis- 
covery. It  was  saved  by  an  accident.  It  may  be  lost  by 
another  accident  —  to-morrow,  any  day." 

"Do  you  dread  a  particular  person  ?  " 

"Hush!  Do  not  tremble  and  cry  so  much  for  me.  I  am 
not  worthy  of  these  tears,"  said  my  mother,  kissing  my  hands. 
"I  dread  one  person  very  much." 

"  An  enemy  ?  " 

"Not  a  friend.  One  who  is  too  passionless  to  be  either. 
He  is  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  lawyer;  mechanically  faithful 
without  attachment,  and  very  jealous  of  the  profit,  privi- 
lege, and  reputation  of  being  master  of  the  mysteries  of  great 
houses." 

"  Has  he  any  suspicions  ?  " 
t  "Many." 

"  Not  of  you  ?  "    I  said  alarmed. 

"Yes!  He  is  always  vigilant,  and  always  near  me.  I 
nay  keep  him  at  a  standstill,  but  I  can  never  shake  him 

)ff." 

"  Has  he  so  little  pity  or  compunction  ?  " 

"He  has  none,  and  no  anger.    He  is  indifferent  to  every- 
hing  but  his  calling.    His  calling  is  the  acquisition  of  secrets, 
Jid  the  holding  possession  of  such  power  as  they  give  him 
nth  no  sharer  or  opponent  in  it." 

"  Could  you  trust  in  him  ?  " 

"I  shall  never  try.  The  dark  road  I  have  trodden  for  so 
iany  years  will  end  where  it  will.  I  follow  it  alone  to  the 
nd  whatever  the  end  be.  It  may  be  near,  it  may  be  distant : 
rmle  the  road  lasts,  nothing  turns  me." 

"  Dear  mother,  are  you  so  resolved  ?  " 


78 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"I  am  resolved.  I  have  long  outbidden  folly  with  folly, 
pride  with  pride,  scorn  with  scorn,  insolence  with  insolence, 
and  have  outlived  many  vanities  with  many  more.  I  will 
outlive  this  danger,  and  outdie  it,  if  I  can.  It  has  closed 
around  me,  almost  as  awfully  as  if  these  woods  of  Chesney 
Wold  had  closed  around  the  house ;  but  my  course  through  it 
is  the  same.    I  have  but  one ;  I  can  have  but  one." 

"Mr.  Jarndyce "  —  I  was  beginning,  when  my  mother 
hurriedly  inquired,  — 

"  Does  he  suspect  ?  " 

"No,"  said  I.  "No,  indeed!  Be  assured  that  he  does 
not!"  And  I  told  her  what  he  had  related  to  me  as  his 
knowledge  of  my  story.  "But  he  is  so  good  and  sensible," 
said  I,  "  that  perhaps  if  he  knew  "  — 

My  mother,  who  until  this  time  had  made  no  change  in  her 
position,  raised  her  hand  up  to  my  lips,  and  stopped  me. 

"  Confide  fully  in  him,"  she  said,  after  a  little  while. 
"  You  have  my  free  consent  —  a  small  gift  from  such  a  mother  ; 
to  her  injured  child !  —  but  do  not  tell  me  of  it.    Some  pride 
is  left  in  me,  even  yet." 

I  explained,  as  nearly  as  I  could  then,  or  can  recall  now—; 
for  my  agitation  and  distress  throughout  were  so  great  that  I 
scarcely  understood  myself,  though  every  word  that  was' 
uttered  in  the  mother's  voice,  so  unfamiliar  and  so  melancholy 
to  me ;  which  in  my  childhood  I  had  never  learned  to  love 
and  recognize,  had  never  been  sung  to  sleep  with,  had  never 
heard  a  blessing  from,  had  never  had  a  hope  inspired  by; 
made  an  enduring  impression  on  my  memory  — I  say  I 
explained,  or  tried  to  do  it,  how  I  had  only  hoped  that  Mr. 
Jarndyce,  who  had  been  the  best  of  fathers  to  me,  might  be 
able  to  afford  some  counsel  and  support  to  her.  But  my 
mother  answered  no,  it  was  impossible ;  no  one  could  help 
her.  Through  the  desert  that  lay  before  her,  she  must  go 
alone. 

"My  child,  my  child!"  she  said.  "For  the  last  time! 
These  kisses  for  the  last  time  !  These  arms  upon  my  neck  for 
the  last  time  !  We  shall  meet  no  more.  To  hope  to  do  what 
I  seek  to  do,  I  must  be  what  I  have  been  so  long.  Such  is 
my  reward  and  doom.    If  you  hear  of  Lady  Dedlock,  bnl 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


79 


liant,  prosperous,  and  flattered;  think  of  your  wretched 
mother,  conscience-stricken,  underneath  that  mask !  Think 
that  the  reality  is  in  her  suffering,  in  her  useless  remorse,  in 
her  murdering  within  her  breast  the  only  love  and  truth  of 
which  it  is  capable  !  And  then  forgive  her,  if  you  can ;  and 
cry  to  Heaven  to  forgive  her,  which  it  never  can ! " 

We  held  one  another  for  a  little  space  yet,  but  she  was  so 
firm,  that  she  took  my  hands  away,  and  put  them  back  against 
my  breast,  and,  with  a  last  kiss  as  she  held  them  there, 
released  them,  and  went  from  me  into  the  wood.  I  was  alone  ; 
and,  calm  and  quiet  below  me  in  the  sun  and  shade,  lay  the 
old  house,  with  its  terraces  and  turrets,  on  which  there  had 
seemed  to  me  to  be  such  complete  repose  when  I  first  saw  it 
but  which  now  looked  like  the  obdurate  and  unpitying  watcher 
of  my  mother's  misery. 

Stunned  as  I  was,  as  weak  and  helpless  at  first  as  I  had 
ever  been  in  my  sick-chamber,  the  necessity  of  guarding 
against  the  danger  of  discovery,  or  even  of  the  remotest  sus- 
picion, did  me  service.  I  took  such  precautions  as  I  could  to 
hide  from  Charley  that  I  had  been  crying ;  and  I  constrained 
myself  to  think  of  every  sacred  obligation  that  there  was  upon 
me  to  be  careful  and  collected.  It  was  not  a  little  while 
before  I  could  succeed,  or  could  even  restrain  bursts  of  grief ; 
but  after  an  hour  or  so,  I  was  better,  and  felt  that  I  might 
return.  I  went  home  very  slowly,  and  told  Charley,  whom  I 
found  at  the  gate  looking  for  me,  that  I  had  been  tempted  to 
extend  my  walk  after  Lady  Dedlock  had  left  me,  and  that  I 
was  over-tired,  and  would  lie  down.  Safe  in  my  own  room 
I  read  the  letter.  I  clearly  derived  from  it  —  and  that  was 
much  then  —  that  I  had  not  been  abandoned  by  my  mother. 
Her  elder  and  only  sister,  the  godmother  of  my  childhood,  dis- 
covering signs  of  life  in  me  when  I  had  been  laid  aside  as 
dead,  had,  in  her  stern  sense  of  duty,  with  no  desire  or  will- 
ingness that  I  should  live,  reared  me  in  rigid  secrecy,  and 
had  never  again  beheld  my  mother's  face  from  within  a  few 
hours  of  my  birth.  So  strangely  did  I  hold  my  place  in 
this  world,  that,  until  within  a  short  time  back,  I  had  never, 
bo  my  own  mother's  knowledge,  breathed  —  had  been  buried 
—  had  never  been  endowed  with  life  —  had  never  borne  a 


80 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


name.  When  she  had  first  seen  me  in  the  church,  she  had 
been  startled ;  and  had  thought  of  what  would  have  been  like 
me,  if  it  had  ever  lived,  and  had  lived  on ;  but  that  was  all, 
then. 

What  more  the  letter  told  me,  needs  not  to  be  repeated  here. 
It  has  its  own  times  and  places  in  my  story. 

My  first  care  was  to  burn  what  my  mother  had  written,  and 
to  consume  even  its  ashes.  I  hope  it  may  not  appear  very 
unnatural  or  bad  in  me,  that  I  then  became  heavily  sorrowful 
to  think  I  had  ever  been  reared.  That  I  felt  as  if  I  knew 
it  would  have  been  better  and  happier  for  many  people, 
if  indeed  I  had  never  breathed.  That  I  had  a  terror  of 
myself,  as  the  danger  and  the  possible  disgrace  of  my  own 
mother,  and  of  a  proud  family  name.  That  I  was  so  confused 
and  shaken,  as  to  be  possessed  by  a  belief  that  it  was  right, 
and  had  been  intended,  that  I  should  die  in  my  birth ;  and 
that  it  was  wrong,  and  not  intended,  that  I  should  be  then 
alive. 

These  are  the  real  feelings  that  I  had.    I  fell  asleep,  worn 
out ;  and  when  I  awoke,  I  cried  afresh  to  think  that  I  was 
back  in  the  world,  with  my  load  of  trouble  for  others.    I  was 
more  than  ever  frightened  of  myself,  thinking  anew  of  her, 
against  whom  I  was  a  witness;  of  the  owner  of  Chesney 
Wold;  of  the  new  and  terrible  meaning  of  the  old  words, 
now  moaning  in  my  ear  like  a  surge  upon  the  shore,  "  Your 
mother,  Esther,  was  your  disgrace,  and  you  are  hers.    The  < 
time  will  come  —  and  soon  enough  —  when  you  will  under-  j 
stand  this  better,  and  will  feel  it  too,  as  no  one  save  a  woman  \ 
can."    With  them,  those  other  words  returned,  "  Pray  daily  j 
that  the  sins  of  others  be  not  visited  upon  your  head."    1 1 
could  not  disentangle  all  that  was  about  me ;  and  I  felt  as  if 
the  blame  and  the  shame  were  all  in  me,  and  the  visitation 
had  come  down. 

The  day  waned  into  a  gloomy  evening,  overcast  and  sad, 
and  I  still  contended  with  the  same  distress.  I  went  out 
alone ;  and,  after  walking  a  little  in  the  park,  watching  the  j 
dark  shades  falling  on  the  trees,  and  the  fitful  flight  of  the 
bats,  which  sometimes  almost  touched  me,  was  attracted  to 
the  house  for  the  first  time.    Perhaps  I  might  not  have  gone 


THE  GHOST'S  WALK. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


81 


near  it,  if  I  had  been  in  a  stronger  frame  of  mind.  As  it 
was,  I  took  the  path  that  lead  close  by  it. 

I  did  not  dare  to  linger  or  to  look  up,  but  I  passed  before 
the  terrace  garden  with  its  fragrant  odors,  and  its  broad 
wralks,  and  its  well-kept  beds  and  smooth  turf ;  and  I  saw  how 
beautiful  and  grave  it  was,  and  how  the  old  stone  balustrades 
and  parapets,  and  wide  flights  of  shallow  steps,  were  seamed 
by  time  and  weather  ;  and  how  the  trained  moss  and  ivy  grew 
about  them,  and  around  the  old  stone  pedestal  of  the  sun-dial ! 
and  I  heard  the  fountain  falling.  Then  the  way  went  by  long 
lines  of  dark  windows,  diversified  by  turreted  towers,  and 
porches,  of  eccentric  shapes,  where  old  stone  lions  and  gro- 
tesque monsters  bristled  outside  dens  of  shadow,  and  snarled 
at  the  evening  gloom  over  the  escutcheons  they  held  in  their 
grip.  Thence  the  path  wound  underneath  a  gateway,  and 
through  a  courtyard  where  the  principal  entrance  was  (I  hur- 
ried quickly  on),  and  by  the  stables  where  none  but  deep 
voices  seemed  to  be,  whether  in  the  murmuring  of  the  wind 
through  the  strong  mass  of  ivy  holding  to  a  high  red  hall,  or 
in  the  low  complaining  of  the  weathercock,  or  in  the  barking 
of  the  dogs,  or  in  the  slow  striking  of  a  clock.  So,  encoun- 
tering presently  a  sweet  smell  of  limes,  whose  rustling  I  could 
hear,  I  turned  with  the  turning  of  the  path,  to  the  south 
front;  and  there,  above  me,  were  the  balustrades  of  the 
Ghost's  Walk,  and  one  lighted  window  that  might  be  my 
mother's. 

The  way  was  paved  here,  like  the  terrace,  overhead,  and  my 
footsteps  from  being  noiseless  made  an  echoing  sound  upon 
the  flags.  Stopping  to  look  at  nothing,  but  seeing  all  I  did 
see  as  I  went,  I  was  passing  quickly  on,  and  in  a  few  moments 
should  have  passed  the  lighted  window,  when  my  echoing 
footsteps  brought  it  suddenly  into  my  mind  that  there  was 
a  dreadful  truth  in  the  legend  of  the  Ghost's  Walk ;  that  it 
was  I,  who  was  to  bring  calamity  upon  the  stately  house ;  and 
that  my  warning  feet  were  haunting  it  even  then.  Seized 
with  an  augmented  terror  of  myself  which  turned  me  cold,  I 
ran  from  myself  and  everything,  retraced  the  way  by  which 
I  had  come,  and  never  paused  until  I  had  gained  the  lodge- 
gate,  and  the  park  lay  sullen  and  black  behind  me. 

VOL.  II. 


82 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Not  before  I  was  alone  in  my  own  room  for  the  night,  and 
had  again  been  dejected  and  unhappy  there,  did  I  begin  to 
know  how  wrong  and  thankless  this  state  was.  But,  from  my 
darling  who  was  coming  on  the  morrow,  I  found  a  joyful 
letter,  full  of  such  loving  anticipation  that  I  must  have  been 
of  marble  if  it  had  not  moved  me ;  from  my  Guardian,  too,  I 
found  another  letter,  asking  me  to  tell  Dame  Durden,  if  I 
should  see  that  little  woman  anywhere,  that  they  had  moped 
most  pitiably  without  her,  that  the  housekeeping  was  going 
to  rack  and  ruin,  that  nobody  else  could  manage  the  keys,  and 
that  everybody  in  and  about  the  house  declared  it  was  not  the 
same  house,  and  was  becoming  rebellious  for  her  return. 
Two  such  letters  together  made  me  think  how  far  beyond  my 
deserts  1  was  beloved,  and  how  happy  I  ought  to  be.  That 
made  me  think  of  all  my  past  life ;  and  that  brought  me,  as 
it  ought  to  have  done  before,  into  a  better  condition. 

For,  I  saw  very  well  that  I  could  not  have  been  intended  to 
die,  or  I  should  never  have  lived ;  not  to  say  should  never 
have  been  reserved  for  such  a  happy  life.    I  saw  very  well 
how  many  things  had  worked  together,  for  my  welfare ;  and 
that  if  the  sins  of  the  fathers  were  sometimes  visited  upon 
the  children,  the  phrase  did  not  mean  what  I  had  in  the 
morning  feared  it  meant.    I  knew  I  was  as  innocent  of  my 
birth,  as  a  queen  of  hers ;  and  that  before  my  Heavenly 
Father  I  should  not  be  punished  for  birth,  nor  a  queen 
rewarded  for  it.    I  had  had  experience,  in  the  shock  of  that  t 
very  day,  that  I  could,  even  thus  soon,  find  comforting  recon-  j 
cilements  to  the  change  that  had  fallen  on  me.    I  renewed ' 
my  resolutions,  and  prayed  to  be  strengthened  in  them;, 
pouring  out  my  heart  for  myself,  and  for  my  unhappy  mother,  < 
and  feeling  that  the  darkness  of  the  morning  was  passing 
away.    It  was  not  upon  my  sleep ;  and  when  the  next  day's 
light  awoke  me,  it  was  gone. 

My  dear  girl  was  to  arrive  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
How  to  help  myself  through  the  intermediate  time  better  than 
by  taking  a  long  walk  along  the  road  by  which  she  was  to 
come,  I  did  not  know ;  so  Charley  and  I  and  Stubbs  —  Stubbs, 
saddled,  for  we  never  drove  him  after  the  one  great  occasion 
—  made  a  long  expedition  along  that  road,  and  back.  On 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


83 


our  return,  we  held  a  great  review  of  the  house  and  garden ; 
and  saw  that  everything  was  in  its  prettiest  condition,  and 
had  the  bird  out  ready  as  an  important  part  of  the  establish- 
ment. 

There  were  more  than  two  full  hours  yet  to  elapse,  before 
she  could  come ;  and  in  that  interval,  which  seemed  a  long 
one,  I  must  confess  I  was  nervously  anxious  about  my  altered 
looks.  I  loved  my  darling  so  well  that  I  was  more  concerned 
for  their  effect  on  her  than  on  any  one.  I  was  not  in  this 
slight  distress  because  I  at  all  repined  —  I  am  quite  certain  I 
did  not,  that  day  —  but,  I  thought,  would  she  be  wholly  pre- 
pared ?  When  she  first  saw  me,  might  she  not  be  a  little 
shocked  and  disappointed  ?  Might  it  not  prove  a  little  worse 
than  she  had  expected  ?  Might  she  not  look  for  her  old 
Esther,  and  not  find  her  ?  Might  she  not  have  to  grow  used 
to  me,  and  to  begin  all  over  again  ? 

I  knew  the  various  expressions  of  my  sweet  girl's  face  so 
well,  and  it  was  such  an  honest  face  in  its  loveliness,  that  I 
was  sure,  beforehand,  she  could  not  hide  that  first  look  from 
me.  And  I  considered  whether,  if  it  should  signify  any  one  of 
these  meanings,  which  was  so  very  likely,  could  I  quite  answer 
for  myself  ? 

Well,  I  thought  I  could.  After  last  night,  I  thought  I 
could.  But  to  wait  and  wait,  and  expect  and  expect,  and 
think  and  think,  was  such  bad  preparation,  that  I  resolved  to 
go  along  the  road  again,  and  meet  her. 

So  I  said  to  Charley,  "  Charley,  I  will  go  by  myself  and 
walk  along  the  road  until  she  comes."  Charley  highly 
approving  of  anything  that  pleased  me,  I  went,  and  left  her 
at  home. 

But  before  I  got  to  the  second  milestone,  I  had  been  in  so 
many  palpitations  from  seeing  dust  in  the  distance  (though  I 
knew  it  was  not,  and  could  not  be,  the  coach  yet),  that  I 
resolved  to  turn  back  and  go  home  again.  And  when  I  had 
turned,  I  was  in  such  fear  of  the  coach  coming  up  behind 
me  (though  I  still  knew  that  it  neither  would,  nor  could,  do 
any  such  thing),  that  I  ran  the  greater  part  of  the  way,  to 
avoid  being  overtaken. 

Then,  I  considered,  when  I  had  got  safe  back  again,  this 


S4 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


was  a  nice  thing  to  have  done  !    Now  I  was  hot,  and  had  made 
the  worst  of  it,  instead  of  the  best. 

At  last,  when  I  believed  there  was  at  least  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  more  yet,  Charley  all  at  once  cried  out  to  me  as  I  was 
trembling  in  the  garden,  "  Here  she  comes,  miss  !  Here  she 
is!" 

I  did  not  mean  to  do  it,  but  I  ran  up-stairs  into  my  room 
and  hid  myself  behind  the  door.  There  I  stood,  trembling, 
even  when  I  heard  my  darling  calling  as  she  came  up-stairs, 
"  Esther,  my  dear,  my  love,  where  are  you  ?  Little  woman, 
dear  Dame  Durden  !  " 

She  ran  in,  and  was  running  out  again  when  she  saw  me. 
Ah,  my  angel  girl !  the  old  dear  look,  all  love,  all  fondness, 
all  affection.    Nothing  else  in  it  —  no,  nothing,  nothing ! 

0  how  happy  I  was,  down  upon  the  floor,  with  my  sweet 
beautiful  girl  down  upon  the  floor  too,  holding  my  scarred 
face  to  her  lovely  cheek,  bathing  it  with  tears  and  kisse^ 
rocking  me  to  and  fro  like  a  child,  calling  me  by  every  tender 
name  that  she  could  think  of,  and  pressing  me  to  her  faithful ! 
heart. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


85 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JARNDYCE  AND  JARNDYCE. 

If  the  secret  that  I  had  to  keep  had  been  mine,  I  must 
have  confided  it  to  Ada  before  we  had  been  long  together. 
But  it  was  not  mine ;  and  I  did  not  feel  that  I  had  a  right  to 
tell  it,  even  to  my  Guardian,  unless  some  great  emergency 
arose.  It  was  a  weight  to  bear  alone  ;  still  my  present  duty 
appeared  to  be  plain,  and,  blessed  in  the  attachment  of  my 
dear,  I  did  not  want  an  impulse  and  encouragement  to  do  it. 
Though  often  when  she  was  asleep,  and  all  was  quiet,  the 
remembrance  of  my  mother  kept  me  waking,  and  made  the 
night  sorrowful,  I  did  not  yield  to  it  at  another  time ;  and 
Ada  found  me  what  I  used  to  be  —  except,  of  course,  in  that 
particular  of  which  I  have  said  enough,  and  which  I  have  no 
intention  of  mentioning  any  more,  just  now,  if  I  can  help  it. 

The  difficulty  that  I  felt  in  being  quite  composed  that  first 
evening,  when  Ada  asked  me,  over  our  work,  if  the  family 
were  at  the  house,  and  when  I  was  obliged  to  answer  yes,  I 
believed  so,  for  Lady  Dedlock  had  spoken  to  me  in  the  woods 
the  day  before  yesterday,  was  great.  Greater  still,  when  Ada 
asked  me  what  she  had  said,  and  when  I  replied  that  she  had 
been  kind  and  interested ;  and  when  Ada,  while  admitting  her 
beauty  and  elegance,  remarked  upon  her  proud  manner,  and 
her  imperious  chilling  air.  But  Charley  helped  me  through 
unconsciously,  by  telling  us  that  Lady  Dedlock  had  only  stayed 
at  the  House  two  nights,  on  her  way  from  London  to  visit  at 
some  other  great  house  in  the  next  county ;  and  that  she  had 
left  early  on  the  morning  after  we  had  seen  her  at  our  view, 
as  we  called  it.  Charley  verified  the  adage  about  little  pitch- 
ers, I  am  sure ;  for  she  heard  of  more  sayings  and  doings,  in  a 
day,  than  would  have  come  to  my  ears  in  a  month. 

We  were  to  stay  a  month  at  Mr.  Boythorn's.    My  pet  had 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


scarcely  been  there  a  bright  week,  as  I  recollect  the  time, 
when  one  evening  after  we  had  finished  helping  the  gardener 
in  watering  his  flowers,  and  just  as  the  candles  were  lighted, 
Charley  appearing  with  a  very  important  air  behind  Ada's 
chair,  beckoned  me  Mysteriously  out  of  the  room. 

"  Oh !  if  you  please,  miss,"  said  Charley  in  a  whisper,  with 
her  eyes  at  their  roundest  and  largest  "  You're  wanted  at  the 
Dedlock  Arms." 

"  Why,  Charley,"  said  I,  "  who  can  possibly  want  me  at  the 
public-house  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  miss,"  returned  Charley,  putting  her  head 
forward,  and  folding  her  hands  tight  upon  the  band  of  her 
little  apron ;  which  she  always  did,  in  the  enjoyment  of  any- 
thing mysterious  or  confidential,  "  but  it's  a  gentleman,  miss, 
and  his  compliments,  and  will  you  please  to  come  without  say- 
ing anything  about  it." 

"  Whose  compliments,  Charley  ?  " 

"His'n,  miss,"  returned  Charley:  whose  grammatical  educa- 
tion was  advancing,  but  not  very  rapidly. 

"  And  how  do  you  come  to  be  the  messenger,  Charley  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  the  messenger,  if  yon  please,  miss,"  returned  my 
little  maid.    "  It  was  W.  Grubble,  miss." 

"  And  who  is  W.  Grubble,  Charley  ?  " 

"  Mister  Grubble,  miss,"  returned  Charley.  "  Don't  jrou 
know,  miss  ?  The  Dedlock  Arms,  by  W.  Grubble,"  which 
Charley  delivered  as  if  she  were  . slowly  spelling  out  the  sign. 

"  Ay  ?    The  landlord,  Charley  ?  " 

'•Yes,  miss.  If  you  please,  miss,  his  wife  is  a  beautiful 
woman,  but  she  broke  her  ankle  and  it  never  joined.  And 
her  brother's  the  sawyer,  that  was  put  in  the  cage,  miss,  and 
they  expect  he'll  drink  himself  to  death  entirely  on  beer," 
said  Charley. 

Not  knowing  what  might  be  the  matter,  and  being  easily 
apprehensive  now,  I  thought  it  best  to  go  to  this  place  by 
myself.  I  bade  Charley  be  quick  with  my  bonnet  and  veil, 
and  my  shawl ;  and  having  put  them  on,  went  away  down 
the  little  hilly  street,  where  I  was  as  much  at  home  as  in 
Mr.  Boythorn's  garden. 

Mr.  Grubble  was  standing  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  the  door  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


87 


his  very  clean  little  tavern,  waiting  for  me.  He  lifted  off  his 
hat  with  both  hands  when  he  saw  me  coming,  and  carrying  it 
so,  as  if  it  were  an  iron  vessel  (it  looked  as  heavy),  preceded 
me  along  the  sanded  passage  to  his  best  parlor :  a  neat  carpeted 
room,  with  more  plants  in  it  than  were  quite  convenient,  a 
colored  print  of  Queen  Caroline,  several  shells,  a  good  many 
tea-trays,  two  stuffed  and  dried  fish  in  glass  cases,  and  either 
a  curious  egg  or  a  curious  pumpkin  (but  I  don't  know  which, 
and  I  doubt  if  many  people  did)  hanging  from  the  ceiling.  I 
knew  Mr.  Grubble  very  well  by  sight,  from  his  often  standing 
at  his  door.  A  pleasant-looking,  stoutish,  middle-aged  man, 
who  never  seemed  to  consider  himself  cosily  dressed  for  his 
own  fireside  without  his  hat  and  top-boots,  but  who  never  wore 
a  coat  except  at  church. 

He  snuffed  the  candle,  and  backing  away  a  little  to  see  how 
it  looked,  backed  out  of  the  room  —  unexpectedly  to  me,  for  I 
was  going  to  ask  him  by  whom  he  had  been  sent.  The  door 
of  the  opposite  parlor  being  then  opened,  I  heard  some  voices, 
familiar  in  my  ears,  I  thought,  which  stopped.  A  quick  light 
step  approached  the  room  in  which  I  was,  and  who  should 
stand  before  me,  but  Eichard ! 

"My  dear  Esther!"  he  said,  "my  best  friend!"  and  he 
really  was  so  warm-hearted  and  earnest,  that  in  the  first  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  of  his  brotherly  greeting,  I  could  scarcely 
find  breath  to  tell  him  that  Ada  was  well. 

"Answering  my  very  thoughts  —  always  the  same  dear 
girl !  "  said  Richard,  leading  me  to  a  chair,  and  seating  him- 
self beside  me. 

I  put  my  veil  up,  but  not  quite. 

"  Always  the  same  dear  girl ! "  said  Eichard,  just  as  heartily 
as  before. 

I  put  my  veil  up  altogether,  and  laying  my  hand  on  Eichard's 
sleeve,  and  looking  in  his  face,  told  him  how  much  I  thanked 
him  for  his  kind  welcome,  and  how  greatly  I  rejoiced  to  see 
him ;  the  more  so,  because  of  the  determination  I  had  made 
in  my  illness,  which  I  now  conveyed  to  him. 

"My  love,"  said  Eichard,  "there  is  no  one  with  whom  I 
have  a  greater  wish  to  talk,  than  you,  for  I  want  you  to 
understand  me." 


88 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  And  I  want  you,  Richard/'  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  "  to 
understand  some  one  else." 

"  Since  you  refer  so  immediately  to  John  Jarndyee,"  said 
Eichard  —  "I  suppose  you  mean  him  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Then,  I  may  say  at  once  that  I  am  glad  of  it,  because  it  is 
on  that  subject  that  I  am  anxious  to  be  understood.    By  you, 

mind  you,  my  dear  !    I  am  not  accountable  to  Mr.  J arndyce, 

or  Mr.  Anybody." 

I  was  pained  to  find  him  taking  this  tone,  and  he  observed 

it. 

"Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  Richard,  "we  won't  go  into 
that,  now.    I  want  to  appear  quietly  in  your  country  house 
here,  with  you  under  my  arm,  and  give  my  charming  cousin 
a  surprise.    I  suppose  your  loyalty  to  John  Jarndyce  will  ' 
allow  that  ?  "  I 
•    "  My  dear  Richard,"  I  returned,  "  you  know  you  would  be 
heartily  welcome  at  his  house  —  your  home,  if  you  will  but ; 
consider  it  so ;  and  you  are  as  heartily  welcome  here." 

"Spoken  like  the  best  of  little  women!"  cried  Richard? 
gayly. 

I  asked  him  how  he  liked  his  profession  ? 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  well  enough  ! "  said  Richard.    "  It's  all  right. 
It  does  as  well  as  anything  else,  for  a  time.    I  don't  know ; 
that  I  shall  care  about  it  when  I  come  to  be  settled;  but  I  can,; 
sell  out  then,  and  —  however,  never  mind  all  that  botheration  j 
at  present."  j 

So  young  and  handsome,  and  in  all  respects  so  pefectly  the,' 
opposite  of  Miss  Flite  !  And  yet,  in  the  clouded,  eager,  seek-? 
ing  look  that  passed  over  him,  so  dreadfully  like  her ! 

"  I  am  in  town  on  leave,  just  now,"  said  Richard. 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes.  I  have  run  over  to  look  after  my  —  my  Chancery 
interests,  before  the  long  vacation,"  said  Richard,  forcing  a 
careless  laugh.  "  We  are  beginning  to  spin  along  with  that 
old  suit  at  last,  I  promise  you." 

No  wonder  that  I  shook  my  head ! 

"  As  you  say,  it's  not  a  pleasant  subject."  Richard  spoke 
with  the  same  shade  crossing  his  face  as  before.    "  Let  it  go 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


89 


to  the  four  winds  for  to-night.  —  Puff !  Gone  !  —  Who  do  you 
suppose  is  with  me  ?  " 

"  Was  it  Mr.  Skimpole's  voice  I  heard  ?  " 

"  That's  the  man !  He  does  me  more  good  than  anybody. 
What  a  fascinating  child  it  is  ! " 

I  asked  Richard  if  any  one  knew  of  their  coming  down 
together  ?  He  answered,  No,  nobody.  He  had  been  to  call 
upon  the  dear  old  infant  —  so  he  called  Mr.  Skimpole  —  and 
the  dear  old  infant  had  told  him  where  we  were,  and  he  had 
told  the  dear  old  infant  he  was  bent  on  coming  to  see  us,  and 
the  dear  old  infant  had  directly  wanted  to  come  too,  and  so  he 
had  brought  him.  "  And  he  is  worth  —  not  to  say  his  sordid 
expenses  —  but  thrice  his  weight  in  gold/'  said  Kichard.  "He 
is  such  a  cheery  fellow.  No  worldliness  about  him.  Fresh 
and  green-hearted ! " 

I  certainly  did  not  see  the  proof  of  Mr.  Skimpole's  unworld- 
liness  in  his  having  his  expenses  paid  by  Richard;  but  I  made 
no  remark  about  that.  Indeed,  he  came  in,  and  turned  our 
conversation.  He  was  charmed  to  see  me ;  said  he  had  been 
shedding  delicious  tears  of  joy  and  sympathy,  at  intervals  for 
six  weeks,  on  my  account ;  had  never  been  so  happy  as  in  hear- 
ing of  my  progress ;  began  to  understand  the  mixture  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  world  now ;  felt  that  he  appreciated  health  the 
more,  when  somebody  else  was  ill ;  didn't  know  but  what  it 
might  be  in  the  scheme  of  things  that  A  should  squint  to  make 
B  happier  in  looking  straight ;  or  that  C  should  carry  a  wooden 
eg,  to  make  D  better  satisfied  with  his  flesh  and  blood  in  a 
silk  stocking. 

"My  dear  Miss  Summerson,  here  is  our  friend  Richard," 
;aid  Mr.  Skimpole,  "full  of  the  brightest  visions  of  the  future, 
vhich  he  evokes  out  of  the  darkness  of  Chancery.  Now  that's 
ielightful,  that's  inspiriting,  that's  full  of  poetry !  In  old  times, 
he  woods  and  solitudes  were  made  joyous  to  the  shepherd  by 
he  imaginary  piping  and  dancing  of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs. 
This  present  shepherd,  our  pastoral  Richard,  brightens  the 
lull  Inns  of  Court  by  making  Fortune  and  her  train  sport 
hrough  them  to  the  melodious  notes  of  a  judgment  from  the 
>ench.  That's  very  pleasant,  you  know !  Some  ill-conditioned 
fowling  fellow  may  say  to  me,  '  What's  the  use  of  these  legal 


90  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

and  equitable  abuses  ?  How  do  you  defend  4;hem  ? '  I  reply, 
<  My  growling  friend,  I  don't  defend  them,  but  they  are  very 
agreeable  to  me.  There  is  a  shepherd  youth,  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  transmutes  them  into  something  highly  fascinating  to  rny 
simplicity.  I  don't  say  it  is  for  this  that  they  exist  — for  I 
am  a  child  among  you  worldly  grumblers,  and  not  called 
upon  to  account  to  you  or  myself  for  anything  —  but  it 
may  be  so.'" 

I  began  seriously  to  think  that  Eichard  could  scarcely  have 
found  a  worse  friend  than  this.  It  made  me  uneasy  that  at 
such  a  time,  when  he  most  required  some  right  principle  and 
purpose,  he  should  have  this  captivating  looseness  and  putting 
off  of  everything,  this  airy  dispensing  with  all  principle  and 
purpose,  at  his  elbow.  I  thought  I  could  understand  how  such 
a  nature  as  my  Guardian's,  experienced  in  the  world,  and  forced' 
to  contemplate  the  miserable  evasions  and  contentions  of  the:: 
family  misfortune,  found  an  immense  relief  in  Mr.  Skimpole's; 
avowal  of  his  weaknesses  and  display  of  guileless  candor;  but  I 
could  not  satisfy  myself  that  it  was  as  artless  as  it  seemed;  or  j 
that  it  did  not  serve  Mr.  Skimpole's  idle  turn  quite  as  well  ad 
any  other  part,  and  with  less  trouble. 

They  both  walked  back  with  me  ;  and  Mr.  SkimpoM 
leaving  us  at  the  gate,  I  walked  softly  in  with  Eichard, 
and  said,  "Ada,  my  love,  I  have  brought  a  gentleman  to 
visit  you."  It  was  not  difficult  to  read  the  blushing,  startled 
face.  She  loved  him  dearly,  and  he  knew  it,  and  I  knew  iti 
It  was  a  very  transparent  business,  that  meeting  as  cousin^ 
only. 

I  almost  mistrusted  myself,  as  growing  quite  wicked  m  mj\ 
suspicions,  but  I  was  not  so  sure  that  Eichard  loved  hei 
dearly.  He  admired  her  very  much  —  any  one  must  have  dom 
that  — and  I  dare  say,  would  have  renewed  their  youthfu 
engagement  with  great  pride  and  ardor,  but  that  he  knew  hou 
she  would  respect  her  promise  to  my  Guardian.  Still,  I  hac 
a  tormenting  idea  that  the  influence  upon  him  extended  ever 
here  :  that  he  was  postponing  his  best  truth  and  earnestness 
in  this  as  in  all  things,  until  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  shoulc , 
be  off  his  mind.  Ah  me  !  what  Eichard  would  have  beei 
'    without  that  blight,  I  never  shall  know  now  ! 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


91 


He  told  Ada,  in  his  most  ingenuous  way,  that  he  had 
not  come  to  make  any  secret  inroad  on  the  terms  she  had 
accepted  (rather  too  implicitly  and  confidingly,  he  thought) 
from  Mr.  Jarndyce ;  that  he  had  come  openly  to  see  her,  and 
to  see  me,  and  to  justify  himself  for  the  present  terms  on 
which  he  stood  with  Mr.  Jarndyce.  As  the  dear  old  infant 
would  be  with  us  directly,  he  begged  that  I  would  make  an 
appointment  for  the  morning,  when  he  might  set  himself 
right,  through  the  means  of  an  unreserved  conversation  with 
me.  I  proposed  to  walk  with  him  in  the  park  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  this  was  arranged.  Mr.  Skimpole  soon  after- 
wards appeared,  and  made  us  merry  for  an  hour.  He 
particularly  requested  to  see  Little  Coavinses  (meaning 
Charley),  and  told  her,  with  a  patriarchal  air,  that  he  had 
given  her  late  father  all  the  business  in  his  power ;  and  that 
if  one  of  her  little  brothers  would  make  haste  to  get  set-up 
in  the  same  profession,  he  hoped  he  should  still  be  able  to  put 
a  good  deal  of  employment  in  his  way. 

"  For  I  am  constantly  being  taken  in  these  nets,"  said  Mr. 
Skimpole,  looking  beamingly  at  us  over  a  glass  of  wine  and 
water,  "and  am  constantly  being  bailed  out  — like  a  boat. 
Or  paid  off  —  like  a  snip's  company.  Somebody  always  does 
it  for  me.  /  can't  do  it,  you  know,  for  I  never  have  any 
money.  But  Somebody  does  it.  I  get  out  by  Somebody's 
means  ;  I  am  not  like  the  starling  ;  I  get  out.  If  you  were 
to  ask  me  who  Somebody  is,  upon  my  word  I  couldn't  tell  you. 
Let  us  drink  to  Somebody.    God  bless  him  !  " 

Richard  was  a  little  late  in  the  morning,  but  I  had  not  to 
wait  for  him  long,  and  we  turned  into  the  park.  The  air  was 
bright  and  dewy,  and  the  sky  without  a  cloud.  The  birds 
sang  delightfully;  the  sparkles  in  the  fern,  the  grass,  and 
trees,  were  exquisite  to  see  ;  the  richness  of  the  woods  seemed 
to  have  increased  twenty-fold  since  yesterday,  as  if,  in  the  still 
night  when  they  had  looked  so  massively  hushed  in  sleep, 
Nature,  through  all  the  minute  details  of  every  wonderful 
leaf,  had  been  more  wakeful  than  usual  for  the  glory  of  that 
day. 

"This  is  a  lovely  place,"  said  Eichard,  looking  round. 
"None  of  the  jar  and  discord  of  lawsuits  here!" 


92 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


But  there  was  other  trouble. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Richard,  "  when  I 
get  affairs  in  general  settled,  I  shall  come  down  here,  I  think, 
and  rest." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  to  rest  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  as  to  resting  now"  said  Richard,  "  or  as  to  doing 
anything  very  definite  now,  that's  not  easy.  In  short,  it  can't 
be  done  !  /  can't  do  it  at  least." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  I. 

"You  know  why  not,  Esther.  If  you  were  living  in  an 
unfinished  house,  liable  to  have  the  roof  put  on  or  taken 
off  —  to  be  from  top  to  bottom  pulled  down  or  built  up  —  to- 
morrow, next  day,  next  week,  next  month,  next  year  —  you 
would  find  it  hard  to  rest  or  settle.  So  do  I.  Now  ?  There's 
no  now  for  us  suitors." 

I  could  almost  have  believed  in  the  attraction  on  which  my 
poor  little  wandering  friend  had  expatiated,  when  I  saw  again 
the  darkened  look  of  last  night.    Terrible  to  think,  it  had  in  ; 
it  also/a  shade  of  that  unfortunate  man  who  had  died. 

"My  dear  Richard,"  said  I,  "this  is  a  bad  beginning  of  our  ; 
conversation." 

"  I  knew  you  would  tell  me  so,  Dame  Durden." 

"And  not  I  alone,  dear  Richard.  It  was  not  I  who 
cautioned  you  once,  never  to  found  a  hope  or  expectation  on 
the  family  curse." 

"  There  you  come  back  to  John  Jarndyce  ! "  said  Richard,  ] 
impatiently.     "  Well !     We  must  approach  him  sooner  or  I 
later,  for  he  is  the  staple  of  what  I  have  to  say  :  and  it's  as  \ 
well  at  once.    My  dear  Esther,  how  can  you  be  so  blind  ?  j 
Don't  you  see  that  he  is  an  interested  party,  and  that  it  may 
be  very  well  for  him  to  wish  me  to  know  nothing  of  the  suit, 
and  care  nothing  about  it,  but  that  it  may  not  be  quite  so  well 
for  me  ?  " 

"0  Richard,"  I  remonstrated,  "is  it  possible  that  you  can 
ever  have  seen  him  and  heard  him,  that  you  can  ever  have 
lived  under  his  roof  and  known  him,  and  can  yet  breathe, 
even  to  me  in  this  solitary  place  where  there  is  no  one  to  hear 
us,  such  unworthy  suspicions  ?  " 

He  reddened  deeply,  as  if  his  natural  generosity  felt  a  pang 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


93 


of  reproach.  He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  before  he 
replied  in  a  subdued  voice,  — 

"  Esther,  I  am  sure  you  know  that  I  am  not  a  mean  fellow, 
and  that  I  have  some  sense  of  suspicion  and  distrust  being 
poor  qualities  in  one  of  my  years." 

"I  know  it  very  well,"  said  I.  "I  am  not  more  sure  of 
anything." 

"That's  a  dear  girl!"  retorted  Eichard,  "and  like  you, 
because  it  gives  me  comfort.  I  had  need  to  get  some  scrap  of 
comfort  out  of  all  this  business,  for  it's  a  bad  one  at  the  best, 
as  I  have  no  occasion  to  tell  you." 

"  I  know  perfectly,"  said  I,  "  I  know  as  well,  Eichard  — 
what  shall  I  say  ?  as  well  as  you  do  — that  such  misconstruc- 
tions are  foreign  to  your  nature.  And  I  know,  as  well  as  you 
know,  what  so  changes  it." 

"Come,  sister,  come,"  said  Eichard,  a  little  more  gayly, 
"you  will  be  fair  with  me  at  all  events.  If  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  under  that  influence,  so  has  he.  If  it  has  a 
little  twisted  me,  it  may  have  a  little  twisted  him,  too.  I 
don't  say  that  he  is  not  an  honorable  man,  out  of  all  this 
complication  and  uncertainty;  I  am  sure  he  is.  But  it 
taints  everybody.  You  know  it  taints  everybody.  You 
have  heard  him  say  so  fifty  times.  Then  why  should  he 
escape  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  his  is  an  uncommon  character,  and 
he  has  resolutely  kept  himself  outside  the  circle,  Eichard." 

_ "  Oh,  because  and  because  !  "  replied  Eichard,  in  his 
vivacious  way.  » I  am  not  sure,  my  dear  girl,  but  that  it  may 
be  wise  and  specious  to  preserve  that  outward  indifference. 
It  may  cause  other  parties  interested  to  become  lax  about 
their  interests  ;  and  people  may  die  off,  and  points  may  drag 
themselves  out  of  memory,  and  many  things  may  smoothly 
uappen  that  are  convenient  enough." 

I  was  so  touched  with  pity  for  Eichard,  that  I  could  not 
reproach  him  any  more,  even  by  a  look.  I  remembered  my 
guardian's  gentleness  towards  his  errors,  and  with  what  per- 
fect freedom  from  resentment  he  had  spoken  of  them. 

"Esther,"  Eichard  resumed,  "you  are  not  to  suppose  that 
l  have  come  here  to  make  under-handed  charges  against  John 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Jarndyce.  I  have  only  come  to  justify  myself.  "What  I  say 
is,  it  was  all  very  well,  and  we  got  on  very  well,  while  I  was 
a  boy,  utterly  regardless  of  this  same  suit ;  but  as  soon  as  I 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  it,  and  to  look  into  it,  then  it  was 
quite  another  thing.  Then  John  Jarndyce  discovers  that  Ada 
and  I  must  break  off,  and  that  if  I'  don't  amend  that  very 
objectionable  course,  I  am  not  fit  for  her.  Now,  Esther,  I 
don't  mean  to  amend  that  very  objectionable  course  :  I  will 
not  hold  John  Jarndyce's  favor  on  those  unfair  terms  of 
compromise,  which  he  has  no  right  to  dictate.  Whether  it 
pleases  him  or  displeases  him,  I  must  maintain  my  rights, 
and  Ada's.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  a  good  deal,  and 
this  is  the  conclusion  I  have  come  to." 

Poor  dear  Richard  !  He  had  indeed  been  thinking  about  it 
a  good  deal.  His  face,  his  voice,  his  manner,  all  showed  that, 
too  plainly. 

"  So  I  tell  him  honorably  (you  are  to  know  I  have  written 
to  him  about  all  this),  that  we  are  at  issue,  and  that  we  had 
better  be  at  issue  openly  than  covertly.  I  thank  him  for  his 
good-will  and  his  protection,  and  he  goes  his  road,  and  I  go  j 
mine.  The  fact  is,  our  roads  are  not  the  same.  Under' 
one  of  the  wills  in  dispute,  I  should  take  much  more  than 
he.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is  the  one  to  be  established, 
but  there  it  is,  and  it  has  its  chance."  #  ;| 

"  I  have  not  to  learn  from  you,  my  dear  Eichard,  "said  I,, 
"of  your  letter.  I  had  heard  of  it  already,  without  ani 
offended  or  angry  word." 

"Indeed?"  replied  Eichard,  softening.  "I  am  glad  V 
said  he  was  an  honorable  man,  out  of  all  this  wretched  affair.; 
But  I  always  say  that,  and  have  never  doubted  it.  Now,  my 
dear  Esther,  I  know  these  views  of  mine  appear  extremely 
harsh  to  you,  and  will  to  Ada  when  you  tell  her  what  has ! 
passed  between  us.  But  if  you  had  gone  into  the  case  as  I 
have,  if  you  had  only  applied  yourself  to  the  papers  as  I  did 
when  I  was  at  Kenge's,  if  you  only  knew  what  an  accumula- 
tion of  charges  and  counter-charges,  and  suspicions  and  cross- 
suspicions,  they  involve,  you  would  think  me  moderate  in 
comparison." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  I.    "But  do  you  think  that,  among 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


95 


those  many  papers,  there  is  much  truth  and  justice, 
Richard  ? " 

"There  is  truth  and  justice  somewhere  in  the  case, 
Esther/7  — 

"  Or  was  once,  long  ago,"  said  I.. 

"  Is  —  is  —  must  be  somewhere,"  pursued  Eichard,  im- 
petuously, "  and  must  be  brought  out.  To  allow  Ada  to  be 
made  a  bribe  and  hush-money  of,  is  not  the  way  to  bring  it 
out.  You  say  the  suit  is  changing  me;  John  Jarndyce  says 
it  changes,  has  changed,  and  will  change,  everybody  who  has 
any  share  in  it.  Then  the  greater  right  I  have  on  my  side, 
when  I  resolve  to  do  all  I  can  to  bring  it  to  an  end." 

"  All  you  can,  Eichard  !  Do  you  think  that  in  these  many 
years  no  others  have  done  all  they  could  ?  Has  the  difficulty 
grown  easier  because  of  so  many  failures  ?  " 

"  It  can't  last  forever,"  returned  Eichard,  with  a  fierceness 
kindling  in  him  which  again  presented  to  me  that  last  sad 
reminder.  "  I  am  young  and  earnest ;  and  energy  and  deter- 
mination have  done  wonders  many  a  time.  Others  have  only 
half  thrown  themselves  into  it.  I  devote  myself  to  it.  I 
make  it  the  object  of  my  life." 

"  0,  Eichard,  my  dear,  so  much  the  worse,  so  much  the  worse ! " 

"No,  no,  no,  don't  you  be  afraid  for  me,"  he  returned, 
affectionately.  "  You're  a  dear,  good,  wise,  quiet,  blessed 
girl ;  but  you  have  your  prepossessions.  So  I  come  round  to 
John  Jarndyce.  I  tell  you,  my  good  Esther,  when  he  and  I 
were  on  those  terms  which  he  found  so  convenient,  we  were 
not  on  natural  terms." 

"Are  division  and  animosity  your  natural  terms,  Eichard  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  say  that.  I  mean  that  all  this  business  puts 
us  on  unnatural  terms,  with  which  natural  relations  are 
incompatible.  See  another  reason  for  urging  it  on  !  I  may 
find  out,  when  it's  over,  that  I  have  been  mistaken  in  John 
Jarndyce.  My  head  may  be  clearer  when  I  am  free  of  it,  and 
I  may  then  agree  with  what  you  say  to-day.  Very  well. 
Then  I  shall  acknowledge  it,  and  make  him  reparation." 

Everything  postponed  to  that  imaginary  time  !  Everything 
held  in  confusion  and  indecision  until  then ! 

"  Now,  my  best  of  confidantes,"  said  Eichard,  "  I  want  my 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


cousin,  Ada,  to  understand  that  I  am  not  captious,  fickle,  and 
wilful  about  John  Jarndyce ;  but  that  I  have  this  purpose 
and  reason  at  my  back.  I  wish  to  represent  myself  to  her 
through  you,  because  she  has  a  great  esteem  and  respect  for 
her  cousin  John ;  and  I  know  you  will  soften  the  course  I 
take,  even  though  you  disapprove  of  it;  and  —  and  in  short," 
said  Eichard,  who  had  been  hesitating  through  these  words, 
"I  —  I  don't  like  to  represent  myself  in  this  litigious,  con- 
tentious, doubting  character,  to  a  confiding  girl  like  Ada." 

I  told  him  that  he  was  more  like  himself  in  those  latter 
words,  than  in  anything  he  had  said  yet. 

«  Why,"  acknowledged  Richard,  "  that  may  be  true  enough, 
my  love.  I  rather  feel  it  to  be  so.  But  I  shall  be  able  to  give 
myself  fair  play  by  and  by.  I  shall  come  all  right  again,  then, 
don't  you  be  afraid." 

I  asked  him  if  this  were  all  he  wished  me  to  tell  Ada  ? 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Eichard.  "  I  am  bound  not  to  withhold 
from  her  that  John  Jarndyce  answered  my  letter  in  his  usual 
manner,  addressing  me  as  'My  dear  Eick/ trying  to  argue 
me  out  of  my  opinions,  and  telling  me  that  they  should 
make  no  difference  in  him.  (All  very  well  of  course,  but  not 
altering  the  case.)  I  also  want  Ada  to  know,  that  if  I  see 
her  seldom  just  now,  I  am  looking  after  her  interests  as  well 
as  my  own  —  we  two  being  in  the  same  boat  exactly  —  and 
that  I  hope  she  will  not  suppose,  from  any  flying  rumors 
she  may  hear,  that  I  am  at  all  light-headed  or  imprudent ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  am  always  looking  forward  to  the  ter- 
mination of  the  suit,  and  always  planning  in  that  direction. 
Being  of  age  now,  and  having  taken  the  step  I  have  taken, 
I  consider  myself  free  from  any  accountability  to  John 
Jarndyce  ;  but  Ada  being  still  a  ward  of  the  Court,  I  don't 
yet  ask  her  to  renew  our  engagement.  When  she  is  free  to 
act  for  herself,  I  shall  be  myself  once  more,  and  we  shall 
both  be  in  very  different  worldly  circumstances,  I  believe. 
If  you  will  tell  her  all  this  with  the  advantage  of  your  con- 
siderate way,  you  will  do  me  a  very  great  and  a  very  kind 
service,  my  dear  Esther;  and  I  shall  knock  Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce  on  the  head  with  greater  vigor.  Of  course  I  ask 
for  no  secrecy  at  Bleak  House." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


97 


"Richard,"  said  I,  "you  place  great  confidence  in  me,  but 
I  fear  you  will  not  take  advice  from  me  ?  " 

"It's  impossible  that  I  can  on  this  subject,  my  dear  girl. 
On  any  other,  readily." 

As  if  there  were  any  other  in  his  life  !  As  if  his  whole 
career  and  character  were  not  being  dyed  one  color ! 

"  But  I  may  ask  you  a  question,  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  he,  laughing.  "  I  don't  know  who  may 
not,  if  you  may  not." 

"  You  say,  yourself,  you  are  not  leading  a  very  settled 
life?" 

"  How  can  I,  my  dear  Esther,  with  nothing  settled  ?  " 
"  Are  you  in  debt  again  ?  " 

"Why  of  course  I  am,"  said  Richard,  astonished  at  my 
simplicity. 

"  Is  it  of  course  ?  " 

"My  dear  child,  certainly.  I  can't  throw  myself  into  an 
object  so  completely,  without  expense.  You  forget,  or  perhaps 
you  don't  know,  that  under  either  of  the  wills  Ada  and  I  take 
something.  It's  only  a  question  between  the  larger  sum  and 
the  smaller.  I  shall  be  within  the  mark  any  way.  Bless 
your  heart,  my  excellent  girl,"  said  Richard,  quite  amused 
with  me,  "  I  shall  be  all  right.  I  shall  pull  through,  my 
dear ! " 

I  felt  so  deeply  sensible  of  the  danger  in  which  he  stood, 
that  I  tried,  in  Ada's  name,  in  my  Guardian's,  in  my  own,  by 
every  fervent  means  that  I  could  think  of,  to  warn  him  of  it, 
and  to  show  him  some  of  his  mistakes.  He  received  every- 
thing I  said,  with  patience  and  gentleness,  but  it  all  rebounded 
from  him  without  taking  the  least  effect.  I  could  not  wonder 
at  this,  after  the  reception  his  pre-occupied  mind  had  given  to 
my  Guardian's  letter;  but  I  determined  to  try  Ada's  influence 
yet. 

So,  when  our  walk  brought  us  round  to  the  village  again, 
and  I  went  home  to  breakfast,  I  prepared  Ada  for  the  account 
I  was  going  to  give  her,  and  told  her  exactly  what  reason  we 
had  to  dread  that  Richard  was  losing  himself,  and  scattering 
his  whole  life  to  the  winds.  It  made  her  very  unhappy,  of 
course ;  though  she  had  a  far,  far  greater  reliance  on  his  cor- 

VOL.  II. 


98 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


recting  his  errors  than  I  could  have  —  which  ^  was  so  natural 
and  loving  in  my  dear  !  —  and  she  presently  wrote  him  this 
little  letter,  — 

My  Deakest  Cousin,  —  Esther  has  told  me  all  you  said  to  her  this 
morning.  I  write  this,  to  repeat  most  earnestly  for  myself  all  that  she 
said  to  you,  and  to  let  you  know  how  sure  I  am  that  you  will  sooner  or 
later  find  our  cousin  John  a  pattern  of  truth,  sincerity,  and  goodness, 
when  you  will  deeply,  deeply  grieve  to  have  done  him  (without  intending 
it)  so  much  wrong. 

I  do  not  quite  know  how  to  write  what  I  wish  to  say  next,  but  I  trust 
you  will  understand  it  as  I  mean  it.  I  have  some  fears,  my  dearest 
cousin,  that  it  may  be  partly  for  my  sake  you  are  now  laying  up  so  much 
unhappiness  for  yourself  —  and,  if  for  yourself,  for  me.  In  case  this 
should  be  so,  or  in  case  you  should  entertain  much  thought  of  me  in  what 
you  are  doing,  I  most  earnestly  entreat  and  beg  you  to  desist.  You  can 
do  nothing  for  my  sake  that  will  make  me  half  so  happy,  as  forever  turn- 
ing your  back  upon  the  shadow  in  which  we  both  were  born.  Do  not  be 
angry  with  me  for  saying  this.  Pray,  pray,  dear  Richard,  for  my  sake, 
and  for  your  own,  and  in  a  natural  repugnance  for  that  source  of  trouble 
which  had  its  share  in  making  us  both  orphans  when  we  were  very  young, 
pray,  pray,  let  it  go  forever.  We  have  reason  to  know,  by  this  time, 
that  there  is  no  good  in  it,  and  no  hope ;  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  got 
from  it  but  sorrow. 

My  dearest  cousin,  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  you  are  quite  free, 
and  that  it  is  very  likely  you  may  find  some  one  whom  you  will  love  much 
better  than  your  first  fancy.    I  am  quite  sure,  if  you  will  let  me  say  so, 
that  the  object  of  your  choice  would  greatly  prefer  to  follow  your  fortunes 
far  and  wide,  however  moderate  or  poor,  and  see  you  happy,  doing  your  i 
duty  and  pursuing  your  chosen  way;  than  to  have  the  hope  of  being,  or> 
even  to  be,  very  rich  with  you  (if  such  a  thing  were  possible),  at  the  cost* 
of  dragging  years  of  procrastination  and  anxiety,  and  of  your  indifference/ 
to  other  aims.    You  may  wonder  at  my  saying  this  so  confidently  with  soj 
little  knowledge  or  experience,  but  I  know  it  for  a  certainty  from  my  own 
heart.  Ever,  my  dearest  cousin, 

Your  most  affectionate, 

Ada. 

This  note  brought  Richard  to  us  very  soon ;  but  it  made 
little  change  in  him,  if  any.  We  would  fairly  try,  he  said, 
who  was  right  and  who  was  wrong  —  he  would  show  us  — we 
should  see  !  He  was  animated  and  glowing,  as  if  Ada's  tender-! 
ness  had  gratified  him ;  but  I  could  only  hope,  with  a  sigh, 
that  the  letter  might  have  some  stronger  effect  upon  his  min 
on  re-perusal,  than  it  assuredly  had  then. 

As  they  were  to  remain  with  us  that  day,  and  had  tak 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


99 


their  places  to  return  by  the  coach  next  morning,  I  sought  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Skimpole.  Our  out-of-door 
life  easily  threw  one  in  my  way ;  and  I  delicately  said,  that 
there  was  a  responsibility  in  encouraging  Richard. 

"  Responsibility,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  he  repeated, 
catching  at  the  word  with  the  pleasantest  smile,  "  I  am  the 
last  man  in  the  world  for  such  a  thing.  I  never  was  respon- 
sible in  my  life  —  I  can't  be." 

"  I  am  afraid  everybody  is  obliged  to  be,"  said  I,  timidly 
enough  :  he  being  so  much  older  and  more  clever  than  I. 

"  No,  really  ?  "  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  receiving  this  new  light 
with  a  most  agreeable  jocularity  of  surprise.  "But  every 
man's  not  obliged  to  be  solvent  ?  I  am  not.  I  never  was. 
See,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  he  took  a  handful  of  loose 
silver  and  halfpence  from  his  pocket,  "  there's  so  much  money. 
I  have  not  an  idea  how  muck  I  have  not  the  power  of  count- 
ing. Call  it  four  and  ninepence  —  call  it  four  pound  nine. 
They  tell  me  I  owe  more  than  that.  I  dare  say  I  do.  I  dare 
say  I  owe  as  much  as  good-natured  people  will  let  me  owe. 
If  they  don't  stop,  why  should  I  ?  There  you  have  Harold 
Skimpole  in  little.  If  that's  responsibility,  I  am  responsible." 

The  perfect  ease  of  manner  with  which  he  put  the  money 
up  again,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  on  his  refined  face, 
as  if  he  had  been  mentioning  a  curious  little  fact  about  some- 
body else,  almost  made  me  feel  as  if  he  really  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it. 

"  Now  when  you  mention  responsibility,"  he  resumed,  "  I 
am  disposed  to  say,  that  I  never  had  the  happiness  of  knowing 
any  one  whom  I  should  consider  so  refreshingly  responsible 
as  yourself.  You  appear  to  me  to  be  the  very  touchstone  of 
responsibility.  When  I  see  you,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson, 
intent  upon  the  perfect  working  of  the  whole  little  orderly 
system  of  which  you  are  the  centre,  I  feel  inclined  to  say  to 
myself  — in  fact  I  do  say  to  myself,  very  often  —  that's 
responsibility." 

It  was  difficult,  after  this,  to  explain  what  I  meant;  but  I 
persisted  so  far  as  to  say,  that  we  all  hoped  he  would  check 
md  not  confirm  Richard  in  the  sanguine  views  he  entertained 
just  then. 


100  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

"Most  willingly,"  he  retorted,  "if  I  could.    But,  my  dear  I 
Miss  Summerson,  I  have  no  art,  no  disguise.    If  he  takes  me 
by  the  hand,  and  leads  me  through  Westminster  Hall  in  an  | 
airy  procession  after  Fortune,  I  must  go.    If  he  says,  <  Skim- 
pole, join  the  dance !'  I  must  join  it.  Common-sense  wouldn  t, 
I  know ;  but  I  have  no  common-sense." 

"  It  was  very  unfortunate  for  Eichard,"  I  said. 
«Do  you  think  so!"    returned  Mr.  Skimpole.  "Don't 
say  that,  don't  say  that.    Let  us  suppose  him  keeping  com- 
pany with  Common-Sense  — an  excellent  man  — a  good  deal 
wrinkled -dreadfully  practical  -  change   for  a  ten-pound 
note  in  every  poeket  —  ruled  account-book  in  his  hand -  say, 
upon  the  whole,  resembling  a  tax-gatherer.  Our  dear  Richard, 
san-uine,  ardent,  overleaping  obstacles,  bursting  with  poetry 
like°a  young  bud,  says  to  this  highly  respectable  companion, 
'I  see  a  golden  prospect  before  me  ;  it's  very  bright,  it  s  very 
beautiful,  it's  very  joyous;  here  I  go,  bounding  over  the 
landscape  to  come  at  it!'     The  respectable  compamon 
instantly  knocks  him  down  with  the  ruled  account-book  ;  tells 
him  in  a  literal  prosaic  way,  that  he  sees  no  such  thing; 
shows  him  it's  nothing  but  fees,  fraud,  horsehair  wigs,  and 
black  gowns.    Now  you  know  that's  a  painful  change ;- 
sensible  in  the  last  degree,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  disagreeable, 
I  can't  do  it.    I  haven't  got  the  ruled  account-book,  I  have, 
none  of  the  tax-gathering  elements  in  my  composition,  I  anj 
not  at  all  respectable,  and  I  don't  want  to  be.    Odd  perhapsj 

but  so  it  is  !"  ,  .1 

It  was  idle  to  say  more  :  so  I  proposed  that  we  should  jon 
Ada  and  Eichard,  who  were  a  little  in  advance  and  I  gave  uf 
Mr.  Skimpole  in  despair.  He  had  been  over  the  Hall  m  th< 
course  of  the  morning,  and  whimsically  described  the  famib 
pictures  as  we  walked.  There  were  such  portentous  shep 
herdesses  among  the  Ladies  Dedlock  dead  and. gone,  he  olc 
us  that  peaceful  crooks  became  weapons  of  assault  m  tliei 
hands  They  tended  their  flocks  severely  in  buckram  an. 
powder,  and  put  their  sticking-plaster  patches  on  to  ternf; 
eommoners,  as  the  chiefs  of  some  other  tribes  pu  on 
war-paint.  There  was  a  Sir  Somebody  Dedlock,  with  a  battlf 
a  sprung-mine,  volumes  of  smoke,  flashes  of  lightning,  a  tow 

J 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


101 


on  fire,  and  a  stormed  fort,  all  in  full  action  between  his  horse's 
two  hind  legs :  showing,  he  supposed,  how  little  a  Dedlock 
made  of  such  trifles.  The  whole  race  he  represented  as  hav- 
ing evidently  been,  in  life,  what  he  called  "stuffed  people," 
—  a  large  collection,  glassy  eyed,  set  up  in  the  most  ap- 
proved manner  on  their  various  twigs  and  perches,  very 
correct,  perfectly  free  from  animation,  and  always  in  glass 
cases. 

I  was  not  so  easy  now,  during  any  reference  to  the  name, 
but  that  I  felt  it  a  relief  when  Richard,  with  an  exclamation 
of  surprise,  hurried  away  to  meet  a  stranger,  whom  he  first 
descried  coming  slowly  towards  us. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Skimpole.    "  Vholes  !  " 

We  asked  if  that  were  a  friend  of  Richard's. 

"Friend  and  legal  adviser,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole.  "Now, 
ay  dear  Miss  Summerson,  if  you  want  common-sense,  respon- 
sibility, and  respectability,  all  united  — if  you  want  an 
;xemplary  man  —  Vholes  is  the  man." 

We  had  not  known,  we  said,  that  Richard  was  assisted  by 
my  gentleman  of  that  name. 

^  "When  he  emerged  from  legal  infancy,"  returned  Mr. 
ikimpole,  "  he  parted  from  our  conversational  friend  Kenge, 
•nd  took  up,  I  believe,  with  Vholes.  Indeed,  I  know  he  did' 
tecause  I  introduced  him  to  Vholes." 

"Had  you  known  him  long  ?  "  asked  Ada. 

"Vholes?  My  dear  Miss  Clare,  I  had  had  that  kind  of 
cquaintance  with  him  which  I  have  had  with  several  gentle- 
ien  of  his  profession.  He  had  done  something  or  other,  in 
very  agreeable,  civil  manner,  taken  proceedings,  I  think,  is 
ie  expression  —  which  ended  in  the  proceeding  of  his  taking 
ie.  Somebody  was  so  good  as  to  step  in  and  pay  the  money 
-something  and  fourpence  was  the  amount;  I  forget  the 
ounds  and  shillings,  but  I  know  it  ended  with  fourpence, 
scause  it  struck  me  at  the  time  as  being  so  odd  that  I  could 
*e  anybody  fourpence  —  and  after  that,  I  brought  them 
'gether.  Vholes  asked  me  for  the  introduction,  and  I  gave 
•    Now  I  come  t0  think  Qf  it/,  he  looked  inquir.    j    at  ug 

itn  his  frankest  smile  as  he  made  the  discovery,  "  Vholes 
•ibed  me,  perhaps  ?    He  gave  me  something,  and  called  it 


102 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


commission.  Was  it  a  five-pound  note  ?  Do  you  know,  I 
think  it  must  have  been  a  five-pound  note  ! " 

His  further  consideration  of  the  point  was  prevented  by 
Richard's  coming  back  to  us  in  an  excited  state,  and  hastily 
presenting  Mr.  Vholes  —  a  sallow  man  with  pinched  lips  that 
looked  as  if  they  were  cold,  a  red  eruption  here  and  there 
upon  his  face,  tall  and  thin,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  high- 
shouldered,  and  stooping.  Dressed  in  black,  black-gloved,  and 
buttoned  to  the  chin,  there  was  nothing  so  remarkable  in  him 
as  a  lifeless  manner,  and  a  slow  fixed  way  he  had  of  looking 
at  Richard. 

"  I  hope  I  don't  disturb  you,  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Vholes ;  and 
now  I  observed  that  he  was  further  remarkable  for  an  inward 
manner  of  speaking.  "  I  arranged  with  Mr.  Carstone  that  he 
should  always  know  when  his  cause  was  in  the  Chancellor's , 
paper,  and  being  informed  by  one  of  my  clerks  last  night 
after  post-time  that  it  stood,  rather  unexpectedly,  in  the 
paper  for  to-morrow,  I  put  myself  into  the  coach  early  this  j 
morning  and  came  down  to  confer  with  him." 

"Yes!"  said  Richard,  flushed,  and  looking  triumphantly 
at  Ada  and  me,  "we  don't  do  these  things  in  the  old  slow; 
way,  now.  We  spin  along,  now !  Mr.  Vholes,  we  must  hire 
something  to  get  over  to  the  post  town  in,  and  catch  the  mail 
to-night,  and  go  up  by  it ! " 

"Anything  you  please,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes.  "I  am 
quite  at  your  service." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Richard,  looking  at  his  watch.  "If  I 
run  down  to  the  Dedlock,  and  get  my  portmanteau  fastened 
up,  and  order  a  gig,  or  a  chaise,  or  whatever's  to  be  got,  wej 
shall  have  an  hour  then  before  starting.  Fll  come  back  to 
tea.  Cousin  Ada,  will  you  and  Esther  take  care  of  Mr. 
Vholes  while  I  am  gone  ?  " 

He  was  away  directly,  in  his  heat  and  hurry,  and  was  soon 
*  lost  in  the  dusk  of  evening.    We  who  were  left  walked  on 
towards  the  house. 

"  Is  Mr.  Carstone's  presence  necessary  to-morrow,  sir  ? 99 
said  I.    "  Can  it  do  any  good  ?  " 

"  No,  miss,"  Mr.  Vholes  replied.  "  I  am  not  aware  that 
it  can." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


103 


Both  Ada  and  I  expressed  our  regret  that  he  should  go, 
then,  only  to  be  disappointed. 

"Mr.  Carstone  has  laid  down  the  principle  of  watching  his 
own  interests/'  said  Mr.  Vholes,  "  and  when  a  client  lays 
down  his  own  principle,  and  it  is  not  immoral,  it  devolves 
upon  me  to  carry  it  out.  I  wish  in  business  to  be  exact  and 
open.  I  am  a  widower  with  three  daughters  —  Emma,  Jane, 
and  Caroline  —  and  my  desire  is  so  to  discharge  the  duties  of 
life  as  to  leave  them  a  good  name.  This  appears  to  be  a 
pleasant  spot,  miss." 

The  remark  being  made  to  me,  in  consequence  of  my  being 
next  him  as  we  walked,  I  assented,  and  enumerated  its  chief 
attractions. 

"Indeed?"  said  Mr.  Vholes.  "I  have  the  privilege  of 
supporting  an  aged  father  in  the  Vale  of  Taunton  —  his 
lative  place  —  and  I  admire  that  country  very  much.  I  had 
10  idea  there  was  anything  so  attractive  here." 

To  keep  up  the  conversation,  I  asked  Mr.  Vholes  if  he 
vould  like  to  live  altogether  in  the  country  ? 

"There,  miss,"  said  he,  "you  touch  me  on  a  tender  string, 
fctj  health  is  not  good  (my  digestion  being  much  impaired), 
md  if  I  had  only  myself  to  consider,  I  should  take  refuge  in 
ural  habits ;  especially  as  the  cares  of  business  have  prevented 
ne  from  ever  coming  much  into  contact  with  general  society, 
,nd  particularly  with  ladies'  society,  which  I  have  most 
rished  to  mix  in.  But  with  my  three  daughters,  Emma, 
Tane,  and  Caroline  — and  my  aged  father  — I  cannot  afford  to 
>e  selfish.  It  is  true,  I  have  no  longer  to  maintain  a  dear 
randmother  who  died  in  her  hundred  and  second  year ;  but 
nough  remains  to  render  it  indispensable  that  the  mill  should 
e  always  going." 

It  required  some  attention  to  hear  him,  on  account  of  his 
lward  speaking  and  his  lifeless  manner. 

"You  will  excuse  my  having  mentioned  my  daughters,"  he 
lid.  "  They  are  my  weak  point.  I  wish  to  leave  the  poor 
iris  some  little  independence,  as  well  as  a  good  name." 

We  now  arrived  at  Mr.  Boythorn's  house,  where  the  tea- 
ible,  all  prepared,  was  awaiting  us.  Eichard  came  in,  rest- 
jss  and  hurried,  shortly  afterwards,  and  leaning  over  Mr. 


\ 


104 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Vholes's  chair,  whispered  something  in  his  ear.    Mr.  Vholes 
replied  aloud  —  or  as  nearly  aloud  I  suppose  as  he  ever  replied 
to  anything  — "You  will  drive  me,  will  you,  sir?    It  is  all  j 
the  same  to  me,  sir.    Anything  you  please.    I  am  quite  at  j 
your  service." 

We  understood  from  what  followed  that  Mr.  Skimpole  was  | 
to  be  left  until  the  morning  to  occupy  the  two  places  which  j 
had  been  already  paid  for.    As  Ada  and  I  were  both  in  low  j 
spirits  concerning  Eichard,  and  very  sorry  so  to  part  with  him, 
we  made  it  as  plain  as  we  politely  could  that  we  should  leave 
Mr.  Skimpole  to  the  Dedlock  Arms,  and  retire  when  the  night- 
travellers  were  gone. 

Richard's  high  spirits  carrying  everything  before  them,  we 
all  went  out  together  to  the  top  of  the  hill  above  the  village, 
where  he  had  ordered  a  gig  to  wait ;  and  where  we  found  a  - 
man  with  a  lantern  standing  at  the  head  of  the  gaunt  pale , 
horse  that  had  been  harnessed  to  it. 

I  never  shall  forget  those  two  seated  side  by  side  in  the , 
lantern's  light;  Eichard  all  flush  and  fire  and  laughter,  with 
the  reins  in  his  hand;  Mr.  Vholes,  quite  still,  black-gloved,, 
and  buttoned  up,  looking  at  him  as  if  he  were  looking  at  his; 
prey  and  charming  it.  I  have  before  me  the  whole  picture 
of  the  warm  dark  night,  the  summer  lightning,  the  dusty 
track  of  road  closed  in  by  hedgerows  and  high  trees,  the 
gaunt  pale  horse  with  his  ears  pricked  up,  and  the  driving, 
away  at  speed  to  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce. 

My  dear  girl  told  me,  that  night,  how  Eichard's  being, 
thereafter  prosperous  or  ruined,  befriended  or  deserted,  could, 
only  make  this  difference  to  her,  that  the  more  he  needed  love' 
from  one  unchanging  heart,  the  more  love  that  unchanging 
heart  would  have  to  give  him  :  how  he  thought  of  her  through 
his  present  errors,  and  she  would  think  of  him  at  all  times; 
never  of  herself,  if  she  could  devote  herself  to  him  :  never  of 
her  own  delights,  if  she  could  minister  to  his. 
And  she  kept  her  word  ? 

I  look  along  the  road  before  me,  where  the  distance  already 
shortens  and  the  journey's  end  is  growing  visible ;  and,  true 
and  good  above  the  dead  sea  of  the  Chancery  suit,  and  all  the 
ashy  fruit  it  casts  ashore,  I  think  I  see  my  darling. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


105 


CHAPTEE  VII. 


A  STRUGGLE. 


When  our  time  came  for  returning  to  Bleak  House  again, 
we  were  punctual  to  the  day,  and  were  received  with  an  over- 
powering welcome.  I  was  perfectly  restored  to  health  and 
strength ;  and  finding  my  housekeeping  keys  laid  ready  for 
ne  in  my  room,  rang  myself  in  as  if  I  had  been  a  new  year, 
tip  a  merry  little  peal.  "  Once  more,  duty,  duty,  Esther/ 
jaid  I;  "and  if  you  are  not  overjoyed  to  do  it,  more  than 
iheerfully  and  contentedly,  through  anything  and  everything, 
wi  ought  to  be.    That's  all  I  have  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  !  " 

The  first  few  mornings  were  mornings  of  so  much  bustle 
,nd  business,  devoted  to  such  settlements  of  accounts,  such 
epeated  journeys  to  and  fro  between  the  Growlery  and  all 
ther  parts  of  the  house,  so  many  rearrangements  of  drawers 
nd  presses,  and  such  a  general  new  beginning  altogether, 
hat  I  had  not  a  moment's  leisure.  But  when  these  arrange- 
ments were  completed,  and  everything  was  in  order,  I  paid  a 
isit  of  a  few  hours  to  London,  which  something  in  the  letter 
had  destroyed  at  Chesney  Wold  had  induced  me  to  decide 
pon  in  my  own  mind. 

I  made  Caddy  Jelly  by  —  her  maiden  name  was  so  natural 
)  me  that  I  always  called  her  by  it  —  the  pretext  for  this 
tsit ;  and  wrote  her  a  note  previously,  asking  the  favor  of 
sr  company  on  a  little  business  expedition.  Leaving  home 
3ry  early  in  the  morning,  I  got  to  London  by  stage-coach  in 
ich  good  time,  that  I  walked  to  Newman  Street  with  the  day 
3fore  me. 

Caddy,  who  had  not  seen  me  since  her  wedding-day,  was  so 
ad  and  so  affectionate  that  I  was  half  inclined  to  fear  I 
K>uld  make  her  husband  jealous.    But  he  was,  in  his  way, 
, st  as  bad  — I  mean  as  good;  and  in  short  it  was  the  old 


106  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

story,  and  nobody  would  leave  me  any  possibility  of  doing 
anything  meritorious. 

The  elder  Mr.  Turveydrop  was  in  bed,  I  found,  and  Caddy 
was  milling  his  chocolate,  which  a  melancholy  little  boy  who 
was  an  apprentice  —  it  seemed  such  a  curious  thing  to  he 
apprenticed  to  the  trade  of  dancing  — was  waiting  to  carry 
up-stairs.  Her  father-in-law  was  extremely  kind  and  consid- 
erate, Caddy  told  me,  and  they  lived  most  happily  together. 
(When  she  spoke  of  their  living  together,  she  meant  that  the 
old  gentleman  had  all  the  good  things  and  all  the  good  lodg- 
ing, while  she  and  her  husband  had  what  they  could  get,  and 
were  poked  into  two  corner  rooms  over  the  Mews.) 

"  And  how  is  your  mamma,  Caddy  ?  "  said  I. 

"Why,  I  hear  of  her,  Esther,"  replied  Caddy,  "through 
Pa ;  but  I  see  very  little  of  her.  We  are  good  friends,  I  anx 
glad  to  say ;  but  Ma  thinks  there  is  something  absurd  in  my 
having  married  a  dancing-master,  and  she  is  rather  afraid  of 
its  extending  to  her." 

It  struck  me  that  if  Mrs.  Jellyby  had  discharged  her  own 
natural  duties  and  obligations,  before  she  swept  the  horizon! 
with  a  telescope  in  search  of  others,  she  would  have  taken  the 
best  precautions  against  becoming  absurd ;  but  I  need  scarcely 
observe  that  I  kept  this  to  myself. 

"  And  your  papa,  Caddy  ?  "  J 

"  He  comes  here  every  evening,"  returned  Caddy,  "  and  is 
so  fond  of  sitting  in  the  corner  there,  that  it's  a  treat  to  se<j 

him."  j 
Looking  at  the  corner,  I  plainly  perceived  the  mark  of  Mr 

Jellyby's  head  against  the  wall.    It  was  consolatory  to  know  \ 

that  he  had  found  such  a  resting-place  for  it. 

"And  you,  Caddy,"  said  I,  "you  are  always  busy,  I'll  be 

bound  ?  " 

"Well,  my  dear,"  returned  Caddy,  "I  am  indeed;  for  fc< 
tell  you  a  grand  secret,  I  am  qualifying  myself  to  give  lessons 
Prince's  health  is  not  strong,  and  I  want  to  be  able  to  assisl 
him.  What  with  schools,  and  classes  here,  and  private  pupils 
and  the  apprentices,  he  really  has  too  much  to  do,  poor  fellow ! 

The  notion  of  the  apprentices  was  still  so  odd  to  me,  that  1 
asked  Caddy,  if  there  were  many  of  them  ? 


I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


107 


"  Four/'  said  Caddy.  "  One  in-door,  and  three  out.  They 
are  very  good  children;  only  when  they  get  together  they  will 
plav  —  children-like  —  instead  of  attending  to  their  work.  So 
the  little  boy  you  saw  just  now  waltzes  by  himself  in  the 
empty  kitchen,  and  we  distribute  the  others  over  the  house  as 
well  as  we  can." 

"  That  is  only  for  their  steps,  of  course  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Only  for  their  steps,"  said  Caddy.  "  In  that  way  they 
practise,  so  many  hours  at  a  time,  whatever  steps  they  happen 
to  be  upon.  They  dance  in  the  academy ;  and  at  this  time 
of  year  we  do  Figures  at  five  every  morning." 

"  Why,  what  a  laborious  life  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear,"  returned  Caddy,  smiling,  "when 
the  outdoor  apprentices  ring  us  up  in  the  morning  (the  bell 
rings  into  our  room,  not  to  disturb  old  Mr.  Turveydrop),  and 
when  I  put  up  the  window,  and  see  them  standing  on  the 
doorstep  with  their  little  pumps  under  their  arms,  I  am 
actually  reminded  of  the  Sweeps." 

All  this  presented  the  art  to  me  in  a  singular  light,  to  be 
sure.  Caddy  enjoyed  the  effect  of  her  communication,  and 
cheerfully  recounted  the  particulars  of  her  own  studies. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  to  save  expense,  I  ought  to  know 
something  of  the  Piano,  and  I  ought  to  know  something  of 
the  Kit  too,  and  consequently  I  have  to  practise  those  two 
instruments  as  well  as  the  details  of  our  profession.  If  Ma 
had  been  like  anybody  else,  I  might  have  had  some  little 
musical  knowledge  to  begin  upon.  However,  I  hadn't  any ; 
and  that  part  of  the  wrork  is,  at  first,  a  little  discouraging,  I 
must  allow.  But  I  have  a  very  good  ear,  and  I  am  used  to 
drudgery  —  I  have  to  thank  Ma  for  that,  at  all  events  —  and 
where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,  you  know,  Esther,  the 
world  over."  Saying  these  words,  Caddy  laughingly  sat  down 
it  a  little  jingling  square  piano,  and  really  rattled  off  a 
quadrille  with  great  spirit.  Then  she  good-humoredly  and 
blushingly  got  up  again,  and  while  she  still  laughed  herself, 
said  "  Don't  laugh  at  me,  please  ;  that's  a  dear  girl ! " 

I  would  sooner  have  cried,  but  I  did  neither.  I  encour- 
aged her  and  praised  her  with  all  my  heart.  For  I  consci- 
entiously believed,  dancing-master's  wife  though  she  was,  and 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


dancing-mistress  though  in  her  limited  ambition  she  aspired 
to  be,  she  had  struck  out  a  natural,  wholesome,  loving  course 
of  industry  and  perseverance  that  was  quite  as  good  as  a 
Mission. 

"My  dear,"  said  Caddy,  delighted,  "you  can't  think  how 
you  cheer  me.  I  shall  owe  you,  you  don't  know  how  much. 
What  changes,  Esther,  even  in  my  small  world!  You 
recollect  that  first  night  when  I  was  so  unpolite  and  inky  ? 
Who  would  have  thought,  then,  of  my  ever  teaching  people 
to  dance,  of  all  other  possibilities  and  impossibilities  ! " 

Her  husband,  who  had  left  us  while  we  had  this  chat,  now 
coming  back,  preparatory  to  exercising  the  apprentices  in  the 
ballroom,  Caddy  informed  me  she  was  quite  at  my  disposal. 
But  it  was  not  my  time  yet,  I  was  glad  to  tell  her ;  for  I 
should  have  been  vexed  to  take  her  away  then.  Therefore  we  ■ 
three  adjourned  to  the  apprentices  together,  and  I  made  one  , 
in  the  dance. 

The  apprentices  were  the  queerest  little  people.    Besides  < 
the  melancholy  boy,  who,  I  hoped,  had  not  been  made  so  by 
waltzing  alone  in  the  empty  kitchen,  there  were  two  other  ] 
boys,  and  one  dirty  little  limp  girl  in  a  gauzy  dress.    Such  a  ! 
precocious  little  girl,  with  such  a  dowdy  bonnet  on  (that,  too, 
of  a  gauzy  texture),  who  brought  her  sandalled  shoes  in  an 
old  threadbare  velvet  reticule.    Such  mean  little  boys,  when  j 
they  were  not  dancing,  with  string,  and  marbles,  and  cramp-  ,1 
bones  in  their  pockets,  and  the  most  untidy  legs  and  feet —  j 
and  heels  particularly.    I  asked  Caddy  what  had  made  their  * 
parents  choose  this  profession  for  them  ?    Caddy  said  she  f 
didn't  know;  perhaps  they  were  designed  for  teachers ;  per-  j 
haps  for  the  stage.    They  were  all  people  in  humble  circum-  | 
stances,  and  the  melancholy  boy's  mother  kept  a  ginger-beer  j 
shop. 

We  danced  for  an  hour  with  great  gravity ;  the  melancholy 
child  doing  wonders  with  his  lower  extremities,  in  which  there 
appeared  to  be  some  sense  of  enjoyment  though  it  never  rose 
above  his  waist.  Caddy,  while  she  was  observant  of  her 
husband,  and  was  evidently  founded  upon  him,  had  acquired 
a  grace  and  self-possession  of  her  own,  which,  united  to  her  , 
pretty  face  and  figure,  was  uncommonly  agreeable.     She  L 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


109 


already  relieved  him  of  much  of  the  instruction  of  these 
young  people ;  and  he  seldom  interfered,  except  to  walk  his 
part  in  the  figure  if  he  had  anything  to  do  in  it.  He  always 
played  the  tune.  The  affectation  of  the  gauzy  child,  and  her 
condescension  to  the  boys,  was  a  sight.  And  thus  we  danced 
an  hour  by  the  clock. 

When  the  practice  was  concluded,  Caddy's  husband  made 
himself  ready  to  go  out  of  town  to  a  school,  and  Caddy  ran 
away  to  get  ready  to  go  out  with  me.  I  sat  in  the  ballroom 
in  the  interval,  contemplating  the  apprentices.  The  two  out- 
door boys  went  upon  the  staircase  to  put  on  their  half-boots, 
and  pull  the  in-door  boy's  hair :  as  I  judged  from  the  nature 
of  his  objections.  Keturning  with  their  jackets  buttoned,  and 
their  pumps  stuck  in  them,  they  then  produced  packets  of 
cold  bread  and  meat,  and  bivouacked  under  a  painted  lyre  on 
the  wall.  The  little  gauzy  child,  having  whisked  her  sandals 
into  the  reticule  and  put  on  a  trodden-down  pair  of  shoes, 
shook  her  head  into  the  dowdy  bonnet  at  one  shake  ;  and 
answering  my  inquiry  whether  she  liked  dancing,  by  reply- 
ing, "  not  with  boys/'  tied  it  across  her  chin  and  went  home 
contemptuous. 

"Old  Mr.  Turveydrop  is  so  sorry,"  said  Caddy,  "that  he 
has  not  finished  dressing  yet,  and  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  before  you  go.  You  are  such  a  favorite  of  his, 
Esther." 

I  expressed  myself  much  obliged  to  him,  but  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  add  that  I  readily  dispensed  with  this  atten- 
tion. 

"It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  dress,"  said  Caddy,  "because 
le  is  very  much  looked  up  to  in  such  things,  you  know,  and 
las  a  reputation  to  support.  You  can't  think  how  kind  he  is 
;o  Pa.  He  talks  to  Pa,  of  an  evening,  about  the  Prince 
Regent,  and  I  never  saw  Pa  so  interested." 

There  was  something  in  the  picture  of  Mr.  Turveydrop 
)estowing  his  Deportment  on  Mr.  Jellyby,  that  quite  took 
ny  fancy.  I  asked  Caddy  if  he  brought  her  papa  out 
nuch  ? 

"No,"  said  Caddy,  "I  don't  know  that  he  does  that;  but 
ie  talks  to  Pa,  and  Pa  greatly  admires  him,  and  listens,  and 


110 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


likes  it.  Of  course  I  am  aware  that  Pa  has  hardly  any  claims 
to  Deportment,  but  they  get  on  together  delightfully.  You 
can't  think  what  good  companions  they  make.  I  never  saw 
Pa  take  snuff  before  in  my  life ;  but  he  takes  one  pinch  out 
of  Mr.  Turveydrop's  box  regularly,  and  keeps  putting  it  to 
his  nose  and  taking  it  away  again,  all  the  evening." 

That  old  Mr.  Turveydrop  should  ever,  in  the  chances  and 
changes  of  life,  have  come  to  the  rescue  of  Mr.  Jellyby  from 
Borrioboola-Gha,  appeared  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  pleasantest 
of  oddities. 

"  As  to  Peepy,"  said  Caddy,  with  a  little  hesitation,  "whom 
I  was  most  afraid  of  —  next  to  having  any  family  of  my  own, 
Esther  —  as  an  inconvenience  to  Mr.  Turveydrop,  the  kindness 
of  the  old  gentleman  to  that  child  is  beyond  everything.  He 
asks  to  see  him,  my  dear !    He  lets  him  take  the  newspaper 
up  to  him  in  bed ;  he  gives  him  the  crusts  of  his  toast  to  eat ;  . 
he  sends  him  on  little  errands  about  the  house ;  he  tells  him  ; 
to  come  to  me  for  sixpences.    In  short/'  said  Caddy  cheerily,  • 
"and  not  to  prose,  I  am  a  very  fortunate  girl,  and  ought  to 
be  very  grateful.    Where  are  we  going,  Esther  ?  " 

"  To  the  Old  Street  Koad,"  said  I ;  "  where  I  have  a  few  • 
words  to  say  to  the  solicitor's  clerk,  who  was  sent  to  meet  me 
at  the  coach-office  on  the  very  day  when  I  came  to  London, 
and  first  saw  you,  my  dear.    Now  I  think  of  it,  the  gentle-  . 
man  who  brought  us  to  your  house." 

"  Then,  indeed,  I  seem  to  be  naturally  the  person  to  go  j 
with  you,"  returned  Caddy. 

To  the  Old  Street  Eoad  we  went,  and  there  inquired  at  Mrs.  h 
Guppy's  residence  for  Mrs.  Guppy.  Mrs.  Guppy,  occupying 
the  parlors,  and  having  indeed  been  visibly  in  danger  of 
cracking  herself  like  a  nut  in  the  front  parlor  door  by  peeping 
out  before  she  was  asked  for,  immediately  presented  herself, 
and  requested  us  to  walk  in.  She  was  an  old  lady  in  a  large 
cap,  with  rather  a  red  nose  and  rather  an  unsteady  eye,  but 
smiling  all  over.  Her  close  little  sitting-room  was  prepared 
for  a  visit ;  and  there  was  a  portrait  of  her  son  in  it,  which,  I 
had  almost  written  here,  was  more  like  than  life :  it  insisted 
upon  him  with  such  obstinacy,  and  was  so  determined  not  to 
let  him  off. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Ill 


Not  only  was  the  portrait  there,  but  we  found  the  original 
there  too.  He  was  dressed  in  a  great  many  colors,  and  was 
discovered  at  a  table  reading  law-papers  with  his  forefinger  to 
his  forehead. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  rising,  "this  is 
indeed  an  Oasis.  Mother,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  put  a 
chair  for  the  other  lady,  and  get  out  of  the  gangway." 

Mrs.  Guppy,  whose  incessant  smiling  gave  her  quite  a 
waggish  appearance,  did  as  her  son  requested ;  and  then  sat 
down  in  a  corner,  holding  her  pocket-handkerchief  to  her 
chest,  like  a  fomentation,  with  both  hands. 

I  presented  Caddy,  and  Mr.  Guppy  said  that  any  friend  of 
mine  was  more  than  welcome.  I  then  proceeded  to  the  object 
of  my  visit. 

"I  took  the  liberty  of  sending  you  a  note,  sir,"  said  I. 

My.  Guppy  acknowledged  its  receipt  by  taking  it  out  of  his 
breast-pocket,  putting  it  to  his  lips,  and  returning  it  to  his 
pocket  with  a  bow.  Mr.  Guppy's  mother  was  so  diverted 
that  she  rolled  her  head  as  she  smiled,  and  made  a  silent 
appeal  to  Caddy  with  her  elbow. 

"  Could  I  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  moment  ?  "  said  I. 

Anything  like  the  jocoseness  of  Mr.  Guppy's  mother,  now, 
I  think  I  never  saw.  She  made  no  sound  of  laughter ;  but 
she  rolled  her  head,  and  shook  it,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  mouth,  and  appealed  to  Caddy  with  her  elbow,  and  her 
hand,  and  her  shoulder,  and  was  so  unspeakably  entertained 
altogether  that  it  was  with  some  difficulty  she  could  marshal 
Caddy  through  the  little  folding-door  into  her  bedroom 
adjoining. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  "you  will  excuse  the 
waywardness  of  a  parent  ever  mindful  of  a  son's  appiness. 
My  mother,  though  highly  exasperating  to  the  feelings,  is 
ictuated  by  maternal  dictates." 

I  could  hardly  have  believed  that  anybody  could  in  a 
noment  have  turned  so  red,  or  changed  so  much,  as  Mr. 
xuppy  did  when  I  now  put  up  my  veil. 

*I  asked  the  favor  of  seeing  you  for  a  few  moments  here," 
aid  I,  "in  preference  to  calling  at  Mr.  Kenge's,  because, 
emembering  what  you  said  on  an  occasion  when  you  spoke 


H2  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

to  me  in  confidence,  I  feared  I  might  otherwise  cause  you 
some  embarrassment,  Mr.  Guppy." 

I  caused  him  embarrassment  enough  as  it  was,  I  am  sure. 
I  never  saw  such  faltering,  such  confusion,  such  amazement 
and  apprehension. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  stammered  Mr.  Guppy,  "I  — I— beg 
your  pardon,  but  in  our  profession  —we  —  we  —  find  it  neces- 
sary to  be  explicit.  You  have  referred  to  an  occasion,  miss, 
when  I —  when  I  did  myself  the  honor  of  making  a  declara- 
tion which" — 

Something  seemed  to  rise  in  his  throat  that  he  could  not 
possibly  swallow.  He  put  his  hand  there,  coughed,  made 
faces,  tried  again  to  swallow  it,  coughed  again,  made  faces 
again,  looked  all  round  the  room,  and  fluttered  his  papers. 

"  A  kind  of  giddy  sensation  has  come  upon  me,  miss,"  he 
explained,  "  which  rather  knocks  me  over.    I  —  er  —  a  little, 
subject  to  this  sort  of  thing  —  er  —  By  George  ! "  ^  : 

I  gave  him  a  little  time  to  recover.  He  consumed  it  m. 
putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  taking  it  away  again, 
and  in  backing  his  chair  into  the  corner  behind  him. 

"My  intention  was  to  remark,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,; 
"  —  dear  me  — something  bronchial,  I  think  —  hem  !  — to 
remark  that  you  was  so  good  on  that  occasion  as  to  repel  and 
repudiate  that  declaration.  You— you  wouldn't  perhaps 
object  to  admit  that  ?  Though  no  witnesses  are  present,  it 
might  be  a  satisfaction  to  —  to  your  mind  —  if  you  was  to  put, 
in  that  admission." 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,"  said  I,  "that  I  declined  your 
proposal  without  any  reservation  or  qualification  whatever,, 
Mr.  Guppy." 

"  Thank  you,  miss,"  he  returned,  measuring  the  table  with 
his  troubled  hands.  "  So  far  that's  satisfactory,  and  it  does 
you  credit.  Er  —  this  is  certainly  bronchial !  —  must  be  in 
the  tubes  — er  — you  wouldn't  perhaps  be  offended  if  I  was 
to  mention  —  not  that  it's  necessary,  for  your  own  good-sense 
or  any  person's  sense  must  show  'em  that  —  if  I  was  to  men- 
tion that  such  declaration  on  my  part  was  final,  and  there 
terminated  ?  " 

"  I  quite  understand  that,"  said  I. 


BLEAK  BOUSE. 


113 


"  Perhaps  —  er  —  it  may  not  be  worth  the  form,  but  it  might 
be  a  satisfaction  to  your  mind  —  perhaps  you  wouldn't  object 
to  admit  that,  miss  ?  "  said  Mr.  Guppy. 

"  I  admit  it  most  fully  and  freely/'  said  I. 

"Thank  you/'  returned  Mr.  Guppy.  "Very  honorable,  I 
am  sure.  I  regret  that  my  arrangements  in  life,  combined 
with  circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control,  will  put  it 
out  of  my  power  ever  to  fall  back  upon  that  offer,  or  to  renew 
it  in  any  shape  or  form  whatever ;  but  it  will  ever  be  a  retro- 
spect entwined — er  —  with  friendship's  bowers."  Mr.  Guppy 's 
bronchitis  came  to  his  relief,  and  stopped  his  measurement  of 
the  table. 

"I  may  now  perhaps  mention  what  I  wished  to  say  to 
you  ?  "  I  began. 

"I  shall  be  honored,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Guppy.  "I 
am  so  persuaded  that  your  own  good-sense  and  right  feeling, 
miss,  will  —  will  keep  you  as  square  as  possible  —  that  I  can 
have  nothing  but  pleasure,  I  am  sure,  in  hearing  any  observa- 
tions you  may  wish  to  offer." 

"  You  were  so  good  as  to  imply,  on  that  occasion"  — 

"Excuse  me,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  "but  we  had  better 
not  travel  out  of  the  record  into  implication.  I  cannot  admit 
that  I  implied  anything." 

"You  said  on  that  occasion,"  I  recommenced,  "that  you 
might  possibly  have  the  means  of  advancing  my  interests,  and 
promoting  my  fortunes,  by  making  discoveries  of  which  I 
should  be  the  subject.  I  presume  that  you  founded  that  belief 
upon  your  general  knowledge  of  my  being  an  orphan  girl, 
indebted  for  everything  to  the  benevolence  of  Mr.  Jarndyce. 
Now,  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  what  I  have  come  to  beg 
of  you  is,  Mr.  Guppy,  that  you  will  have  the  kindness  to 
relinquish  all  idea  of  so  serving  me.  I  have  thought  of  this 
sometimes,  and  I  have  thought  of  it  most  lately  —  since  I  have 
been  ill.  At  length  I  have  decided,  in  case  you  should  at  any 
time  recall  that  purpose,  and  act  upon  it  in  any  way,  to  come 
to  you,  and  assure  you  that  you  are  altogether  mistaken. 
You  could  make  no  discovery  in  reference  to  me  that  would 
do  me  the  least  service,  or  give  me  the  least  pleasure.  I  am 
acquainted  with  my  personal  history  ;  and  I  have  it  in  my 

VOL.  II, 


114 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


power  to  assure  you  that  you  never  can  advance  my  welfar 
by  such  means.    You  may,  perhaps,  have  abandoned  thii 
project  a  long  time.    If  so,  excuse  my  giving  you  unnecessar; 
trouble.    If  not,  I  entreat  you,  on  the  assurance  I  have  given 
you,  henceforth  to  lay  it  aside.    I  beg  you  to  do  this,  for  my 
peace." 

"  I  am  bound  to  confess,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  "  that  you  express 
yourself,  miss,  with  that  good-sense  and  right  feeling  for 
which  I  gave  you  credit.  Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory 
than  such  right  feeling,  and  if  I  mistook  any  intentions  on 
your  part  just  now,  I  am  prepared  to  tender  a  full  apology. 
I  should  wish  to  be  understood,  miss,  as  hereby  offering  that 
apology  —  limiting  it,  as  your  own  good-sense  and  right 
feeling  will  point  out  the  necessity  of,  to  the  present  pro- 
ceedings." 

I  must  say  for  Mr.  Guppy  that  the  shuffling  manner  he  had 
had  upon  him  improved  very  much.    He  seemed  truly  glad; 
to  be  able  to  do  something  I  asked,  and  he  looked  ashamed. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me  to  finish  what  I  have  to  say  at  once, 
so  that  I  may  have  no  occasion  to  resume/'  I  went  on,  seeing, 
him  about  to  speak,  "  you  will  do  me  a  kindness,  sir.    I  come 
to  you  as  privately  as  possible,  because  you  announced  this 
impression  of  yours  to  me  in  a  confidence  which  I  have  really 
wished  to  respect  —  and  which  I  always  have  respected,  as 
you  remember.    I  have  mentioned  my  illness.    There  realty; 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  hesitate  to  say  that  I  know  veryi 
well  that  any  little  delicacy  I  might  have  had  in  making  a'j 
request  to  you,  is  quite  removed.    Therefore  I  make  the 
entreaty  I  have  now  preferred;  and  I  hope  you  will  have 
sufficient  consideration  for  me,  to  accede  to  it." 

I  must  do  Mr.  Guppy  the  further  justice  of  saying  that  he 
had  looked  more  and  more  ashamed,  and  that  he  looked  most 
ashamed,  and  very  earnest,  when  he  now  replied  with 
burning  face,  — 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  upon  my  life,  upon  my  sou. 
Miss  Summerson,  as  I  am  a  living  man,  I'll  act  according 
your  wish  !    I'll  never  go  another  step  in  opposition  to  it 
I'll  take  my  oath  to  it,  if  it  will  be  any  satisfaction  to  yoi 
In  what  I  promise  at  this  present  time  touching  the  matte 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  115 

now  in  question/'  continued  Mr.  Guppy,  rapidly,  as  if  he 
were  repeating  a  familiar  form  of  words,  "  I  speak  the  truth, 
the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  "  — 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  I,  rising  at  this  point,  "  and  I 
thank  you  very  much.    Caddy,  my  dear,  I  am  ready  ! " 

Mr.  Guppy's  mother  returned  with  Caddy  (now  making  me 
the  recipient  of  her  silent  laughter  and  her  nudges),  and  we 
took  our  leave.  Mr.  Guppy  saw  us  to  the  door  with  the  air 
of  one  who  was  either  imperfectly  awake  or  walking  in  his 
sleep ;  and  we  left  him  there,  staring. 

But  in  a  minute  he  came  after  us  down  the  street  without 
any  hat,  and  with  his  long  hair  all  blown  about,  and  stopped 
us,  saying  fervently,  — 

"Miss  Summerson*  upon  my  honor  and  soul,  you  may 
depend  upon  me!" 

"I  do,"  said  I,  "quite  confidently." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  going  with  one 
leg  and  staying  with  the  other,  "  but  this  lady  being  present 
—  your  own  witness  —  it  might  be  a  satisfaction  to  your  mind 
(which  I  should  wish  to  set  at  rest)  if  you  was  to  repeat  those 
admissions." 

"  Well,  Caddy,"  said  I,  turning  to  her,  "  perhaps  you  will 
lot  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  there  never 
aas  been  any  engagement  "  — 

"No  proposal  or  promise  of  marriage  whatsoever,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Guppy. 

"No  proposal  or  promise  of  marriage  whatsoever,"  said  I, 
'between  this  gentleman"  — 

"William  Guppy  of  Penton  Place,  Pentonville,  in  the 
ounty  of  Middlesex,"  he  murmured. 

"Between  this  gentleman,  Mr.  William  Guppy  of  Penton 
'lace,  Pentonville,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex,  and  my- 
elf." 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Guppy.    "Very  full,  —  er  — 
xcuse  me  —  lady's  name,  Christian  and  surname  both  ?  " 
I  gave  them. 

"  Married  woman,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Guppy.  "  Married 
oman.  Thank  you.  Formerly  Caroline  Jellyby,  spinster, 
len  of  Thavies'  Inn,  within  the  city  of  London,  but  extra- 


116 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


parochial ;  now  of  Newman  Street,  Oxford  Street.  Much 
obliged."  _  . 

He  ran  home  and  came  running  back  again. 
"  Touching  that  matter,  you  know,  I  really  and  truly  am 
very  sorry  that  my  arrangements  in  life,  combined  with 
circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control,  should  prevent  a 
renewal  of  what  was  wholly  terminated  some  time  back," 
said  Mr.  Guppy  to  me,  forlornly  and  despondently,  "  but  it 
couldn't  be.    Now  could  it,  you  know  ?    I  only  put  it  to  you." 

I  replied  it  certainly  could  not.  The  subject  did  not  admit 
of  a  doubt.  He  thanked  me,  and  ran  to  his  mother's  again 
—  and  back  again. 

"  It's  very  honorable  of  you,  miss,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr. 
Guppy.  "  If  an  altar  could  be  erected  in  the  bowers  of 
friendship  — but,  upon  my  soul,  you  may  rely  upon  me  in' 
every  respect,  save  and  except  the  tender  passion  only  !" 

The  struggle  in  Mr.  Guppy 's  breast  and  the  numerous 
oscillations  it  occasioned  him  between  his  mother's  door  and' 
us,  were  sufficiently  conspicuous  in  the  windy  street  (par- 
ticularly as  his  hair  wanted  cutting),  to  make  us  hurry  away, 
I  did  so  with  a  lightened  heart ;  but  when  we  last  looked 
back,  Mr.  Guppy  was  still  oscillating  in  the  same  troubled 
state  of  mind. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


117 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ATTORNEY  AND  CLIENT. 

The  name  of  Mr.  Vholes,  preceded  by  the  legend  Ground 
Floor,  is  inscribed  upon  a  door-post  in  Symond's  Inn, 
Chancery  Lane :  a  little,  pale,  wall-eyed,  woebegone,  inn, 
like  a  large  dust-bin  of  two  compartments  and  a  sifter.  It 
looks  as  if  Symond  were  a  sparing  man  in  his  day,  and  com- 
structed  his  inn  of  old  building  materials,  which  took  kindly 
to  the  dry  rot  and  to  dirt  and  all  things  decaying  and  dismal, 
and  perpetuated  Symond's  memory  with  congenial  shabbiness. 
Quartered  in  this  dingy  hatchment  commemorative  of  Symond, 
are  the  legal  bearings  of  Mr.  Vholes. 

Mr.  Vholes's  office,  in  disposition  retiring  and  in  situation 
retired,  is  squeezed  up  in  a  corner,  and  blinks  at  a  dead  wall. 
Three  feet  of  knotty  floored  dark  passage  bring  the  client  to 
Mr.  Vholes's  jet-black  door,  in  an  angle  profoundly  dark  on 
the  brightest  midsummer  morning,  and  encumbered  by  a 
black  bulkhead  of  cellarage  staircase,  against  which  belated 
civilians  generally  strike  their  brows.  Mr.  Vholes's  chambers 
are  on  so  small  a  scale,  that  one  clerk  can  open  the  door 
without  getting  off  his  stool,  while  the  other  who  elbows  him 
at  the  same  desk  has  equal  facilities  for  poking  the  fire.  A 
smell  as  of  unwholesome  sheep,  blending  with  the  smell  of 
nust  and  dust,  is  referable  to  the  nightly  (and  often  daily) 
ionsumption  of  mutton  fat  in  candles,  and  to  the  fretting  of 
parchment  forms  and  skins  in  greasy  drawers.  The  atmosphere 
s  otherwise  stale  and  close.  The  place  was  last  painted  or 
vhitewashed  beyond  the  memory  of  man,  and  the  two  chim- 
ieys  smoke,  and  there  is  a  loose  outer  surface  of  soot  every- 
vhere,  and  the  dull  cracked  windows  in  their  heavy  frames  . have 
>ut  one  piece  of  character  in  them,  which  is  a  determination 
o  be  always  dirty,  and  always  shut,  unless  coerced.  This 


118 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


accounts  for  the  phenomenon  of  the  weaker  of  the  two  usually- 
having  a  bundle  of  firewood  thrust  between  its  jaws  in  hot 
weather. 

Mr.  Vholes  is  a  very  respectable  man.    He  has  not  a  large 
business,  but  he  is  a  very  respectable  man.    He  is  allowed  by 
the  greater  attorneys  who  have  made  good  fortunes,  or  are 
making  them,  to  be  a  most  respectable  man.     He  neve 
misses  a  chance  in  his  practice ;  which  is  a  mark  of  respec 
ability.     He  never  takes  any  pleasure  ;  wrhich  is  anothe 
mark  of  respectability.    He  is  reserved  and  serious ;  whic 
is  another  mark  of  respectability.    His  digestion  is  impaired 
which  is  highly  respectable.     And  he  is  making  hay  of 
the  grass  which  is  flesh,  for  his  three  daughters.    And  his 
father  is  dependent  on  him  in  the  Vale  of  Taunton. 

The  one  great  principle  of  the  English  law  is,  to  make' 
business  for  itself.  There  is  no  other  principle  distinctly,: 
certainly,  and  consistently  maintained  through  all  its  narrow 
turnings.  Viewed  by  this  light  it  becomes  a  coherent  scheme/ 
and  not  the  monstrous  maze  the  laity  are  apt  to  think  it. 
Let  them  but  once  clearly  perceive  that  its  grand  principle  is 
to  make  business  for  itself  at  their  expense,  and  surely  they 
will  cease  to  grumble. 

But,  not  perceiving  this  quite  plainly  —  only  seeing  it  by  j 
halves  in  a  confused  way  —  the  laity  sometimes  suffer  in  peace! 
and  pocket,  with  a  bad  grace,  and  do  grumble  very  much! 
Then  this  respectability  of  Mr.  Vholes  is  brought  into  powerful 
play  against  them.  "  Eepeal  this  statute,  my  good  sir  ?  *! 
says  Mr.  Kenge,  to  a  smarting  client,  "repeal  it,  my  dea, 
sir?  Never,  with  my  consent.  Alter  this  law,  sir,  and  what! 
will  be  the  effect  of  your  rash  proceeding  on  a  class  oi 
practitioners  very  worthily  represented,  allow  me  to  say  t( 
you,  by  the  opposite  attorney  in  the  case,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  Sir 
that  class  of  practitioners  would  be  swept  from  the  face  of  th< 
earth.  Now  you  cannot  afford  —  I  would  say,  the  sociaj 
system  cannot  afford  —  to  lose  an  order  of  men  like  Mr.  Vholesj 
Diligent,  persevering,  steady,  acute  in  business.  My  deal 
sir,  I  understand  your  present  feelings  against  the  existing 
state  of  things,  which  I  grant  to  be  a  little  hard  in  youj 
case  ;  but  I  can  never  raise  my  voice  for  the  demolition  of  J 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


119 


class  of  men  like  Mr.  Vholes."  The  respectability  of  Mr. 
Vholes  has  even  been  cited  with  crushing  effect  before 
Parliamentary  committees,  as  in  the  following  blue  minutes 
of  a  distinguished  attorney's  evidence.  "  Question  -(number 
five  hundred  and  seventeen  thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty- 
nine).  If  I  understand  you,  these  forms  of  practice  indisput- 
ably occasion  delay  ?  Answer.  Yes,  some  delay.  Question. 
And  great  expense  ?  Answer.  Most  assuredly  they  cannot 
be  gone  through  for  nothing.  Question.  And  unspeakable 
vexation  ?  Answer.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that.  They 
have  never  given  me  any  vexation :  quite  the  contrary. 
Question.  But  you  think  that  their  abolition  would  damage 
a  class  of  practitioners  ?  Answer.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 
Question.  Can  you  instance  any  t}^pe  of  that  class  ?  Answer. 
Yes.  I  would  unhesitatingly  mention  Mr.  Vholes.  He  would 
be  ruined.  Question.  Mr.  Vholes  is  considered,  in  the  pro- 
fession, a  respectable  man?  Answer" — which  proved  fatal 
to  the  inquiry  for  ten  years  —  "  Mr.  Vholes  is  considered,  in 
the  profession,  a  most  respectable  man." 

So,  in  familiar  conversation,  private  authorities  no  less 
disinterested  will  remark  that  they  don't  know  what  this  age 
is  coming  to ;  that  we  are  plunging  down  precipices ;  that 
now  here  is  something  else  gone  ;  that  these  changes  are  death 
to  people  like  Vholes :  a  man  of  undoubted  respectability, 
with  a  father  in  the  Vale  of  Taunton,  and  three  daughters  at 
home.  Take  a  few  steps  more  in  this  direction,  say  they,  and 
what  is  to  become  of  Vholes's  father  ?  Is  he  to  perish  ?  And 
of  Vholes's  daughters  ?  Are  they  to  be  shirt-makers,  or 
governesses  ?  As  though,  Mr.  Vholes  and  his  relations  being 
minor  cannibal  chiefs,  and  it  being  proposed  to  abolish 
cannibalism,  indignant  champions  were  to  put  the  case 
;hus :  Make  man-eating  unlawful,  and  you  starve  the 
vHioleses  ! 

In  a  word,  Mr.  Vholes,  with  his  three  daughters  and  his 
ather  in  the  Vale  of  Taunton,  is  continually  doing  duty, 
ike  a  piece  of  timber,  to  shore  up  some  decayed  foundation 
hat  has  become  a  pitfall  and  a  nuisance.  And  with  a 
;reat  many  people,  in  a  great  many  instances,  the  question 
3  never  one  of  a  change  from  Wrong  to  Eight  (which  is  quite 


120 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


an  extraneous  consideration),  but  is  always  one  of  injury  or 
advantage  to  that  eminently  respectable  legion,  Vholes. 

The  Chancellor  is,  within  these  ten  minutes,  "up"  for 
the  long  vacation.  Mr.  Vholes,  and  his  young  client,  and 
several  blue  bags  hastily  stuffed,  out  of  all  regularity  of 
form,  as  the  larger  sort  of  serpents  are  in  their  first  gorged 
state,  have  returned  to  the  official  den.  Mr.  Vholes,  quiet 
and  unmoved,  as  a  man  of  so  much  respectability  ought  to 
be,  takes  off  his  close  black  gloves  as  if  he  were  skinning 
his  hands,  lifts  off  his  tight  hat  as  if  he  were  scalping 
himself,  and  sits  down  at  his  desk.  The  client  throws  his 
hat  and  gloves  upon  the  ground  —  tosses  them  anywhere, 
without  looking  after  them  or  caring  where  they  go ;  flings 
himself  into  a  chair,  half  sighing  and  half  groaning;  rests 
his  aching  head  upon  his  hand,  and  looks  the  portrait  of 
Young  Despair. 

"Again  nothing  done  ! "  says  Eichard.  "Nothing,  nothing  J 
done ! " 

"Don't  say  nothing  done,  sir,"  returns  the  placid  Vholes.  , 
"  That  is  scarcely  fair,  sir,  scarcely  fair ! 99 

"Why,  what  is  done?"  says  Eichard,  turning  gloomily' 
upon  him. 

"That  may  not  be  the  whole  question,"  returns  Vholes. 
"The  question  may  branch  off  into  what  is  doing,  what  is; 
doing  ?  " 

"  And  what  is  doing  ?  "  asks  the  moody  client. 

Vholes,  sitting  with  his  arms  on  his  desk,  quietly  bringing 
the  tips  of  his  five  right  fingers  to  meet  the  tips  of  his  five 
left  fingers,  and  quietly  separating  them  again,  and  fixedly 
and  slowly  looking  at  his  client,  replies,  — 

"  A  good  deal  is  doing,  sir.  We  have  put  our  shoulders  to 
the  wheel,  Mr.  Carstohe,  and  the  wheel  is  going  round." 

"Yes,  with  Ixion  on  it.  How  am  I  to  get  through  the  next! 
four  or  five  accursed  months  ?  "  exclaims  the  young  man  J 
rising  from  his  chair  and  walking  about  the  room. 

"Mr.  C,"  returns  Vholes,  following  him  close  with  his  eyes! 
wherever  he  goes,  "your  spirits  are  hasty,  and  I  am  sorry  foi| 
it  on  your  account.  Excuse  me  if  I  recommend  you  not  to 
chafe  so  much,  not  to  be  so  impetuous,  not  to  wear  yourseli; 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


121 


out  so.  You  should  have  more  patience.  You  should  sustain 
yourself  better." 

"I  ought  to  imitate  you,  in  fact,  Mr.  Vholes  ? "  says 
Richard,  sitting  down  again  with  an  impatient  laugh,  and 
beating  the  Devil's  Tattoo  with  his  boot  on  the  patternless 
carpet. 

"  Sir,"  returns  Vholes,  always  looking  at  the  client,  as  if  he 
were  making  a  lingering  meal  of  him  with  his  eyes  as  well  as 
with  his  professional  appetite.  "Sir,"  returns  Vholes,  with 
his  inward  manner  of  speech  and  his  bloodless  quietude;  "I 
should  not  have  had  the  presumption  to  propose  myself  as  a 
model,  for  your  imitation  or  any  man's.  Let  me  but  leave  the 
good  name  to  my  three  daughters,  and  that  is  enough  for  me ; 
I  am  not  a  self-seeker.  But,  since  you  mention  me  so  point- 
edly, I  will  acknowledge  that  I  should  like  to  impart  to  you  a 
little  of  my  — come  sir,  you  are  disposed  to  call  it  insensi- 
bility, and  I  am  sure  I  have  no  objection —  say  insensibility 
—  a  little  of  my  insensibility." 

"Mr.  Vholes,"  explains  the  client,  somewhat  abashed,  "I 
had  no  intention  to  accuse  you  of  insensibility." 

"  I  think  you  had,  sir,  without  knowing  it,"  returns  the 
equable  Vholes.  "Very  naturally.  It  is  my  duty  to  attend 
to  your  interests  with  a  cool  head,  and  I  can  quite  understand 
that  to  your  excited  feelings  I  may  appear,  at  such  times  as 
the  present,  insensible.  My  daughters  may  know  me  better; 
my  aged  father  may  know  me  better.  But  they  have  known 
lie  much  longer  than  you  have,  and  the  confiding  eye  of 
iffection  is  not  the  distrustful  eye  of  business.  Not  that  I 
complain,  sir,  of  the  eye  of  business  being  distrustful ;  quite 
he  contrary.  In  attending  to  your  interests,  I  wish  to  have 
W  possible  checks  upon  me;  it  is  right  that  I  should  have 
hem l  ;  I  court  inquiry.  But  your  interests  demand  that  I 
hould  be  cool  and  methodical,  Mr.  Carstone ;  and  I  cannot  be 
tnerwise  — no,  sir,  not  even  to  please  you." 

Mr  Vholes,  after  glancing  at  the  official  cat  who  is  patiently 
etching  a  mouse's  hole,  fixes  his  charmed  gaze  again  on  his 
oung  client,  and  proceeds  in  his  buttoned-up  half-audible 
oice,  as  if  there  were  an  unclean  spirit  in  him  that  will 
either  come  out  nor  speak  out :  — 


122  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

«  What  are  you  to  do,  sir,  you  inquire,  during  the  vacation. 
I  should  hope  you  gentlemen  of  the  army  may  find  many 
means  of  amusing  yourselves,  if  you  give  your  minds  to  it. 
If  you  had  asked  me  what  I  was  to  do,  during  the  vacation,  I 
could  have  answered  you  more  readily.  I  am  to  attend  to 
your  interests.  I  am  to  be  found  here,  day  by  day,  attending 
to  your  interests.  That  is  my  duty,  Mr.  C  ;  and  term  time  or 
vacation  makes  no  difference  to  me.  If  you  wish  to  consult 
me  as  to  your  interests,  you  will  find  me  here  at  all  times 
alike.  Other  professional  men  go  out  of  town.  I  don't.  Not 
that  I  blame  them  for  going ;  I  merely  say,  I  don't  go.  This 
desk  is  your  rock,  sir ! " 

Mr.  Vholes  gives  it  a  rap,  and  it  sounds  as  hollow  as  a 
coffin".  Not  to  Richard,  though.  There  is  encouragement  in 
the  sound  to  him.    Perhaps  Mr.  Vholes  knows  there  is. 

"I  am  perfectly  aware,  Mr.  Vholes,"  says  Richard,  more 
familiarly  and  good-humoredly,  "that  you  are  the  most  reli-; 
able  fellow  in  the  world ;  and  that  to  have  to  do  with  you,: 
is  to  have  to  do  with  a  man  of  business  who  is  not  to  be 
hoodwinked.  But  put  yourself  in  my  case,  dragging  on  this, 
dislocated  life,  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  difficulty  every 
day,  continually  hoping  and  continually  disappointed,  conscious, 
of  change  upon  change  for  the  worse  in  myself,  and  of  no 
change  for  the  better  in  anything  else ;  and  you  will  find  it  a; 
dark-looking  case  sometimes,  as  I  do." 

"You  know,"  says  Mr.  Vholes,  "that  I  never  give  hopes, 
sir  I  told  you  from  the  first,  Mr.  C,  that  I  never  give  hopes'. 
Particularly  in  a  case  like  this,  where  the  greater  part  of  th| 
costs  comes  out  of  the  estate,  I  should  not  be  considerate  o| 
my  good  name,  if  I  gave  hopes.  It  might  seem  as  if  costs 
were  my  object.  Still,  when  you  say  there  is  no  change  foi 
the  better,  I  must,  as  a  bare  matter  of  fact,  deny  that. 

"Ay?"  returns  Richard,  brightening.    "But  how  do  yoi 

make  it  out  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Carstone,  you  are  represented  by  — 
«  You  said  just  now  —  a  rock." 

"Yes  sir,"  says  Mr.  Vholes,  gently  shaking  his  head  an. 
rapping  the  hollow  desk,  with  a  sound  as  if  ashes  were  falUn 
on  ashes,  and  dust  on  dust,  «  a  rock.    That's  something.  Yo 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


123 


are  separately  represented,  and  no  longer  hidden  and  lost  in 
the  interests  of  others.  That's  something.  The  suit  does  not 
sleep ;  we  wake  it  up,  we  air  it,  we  walk  it  about.  That's 
something.  It's  not  all  Jarndyce,  in  fact  as  well  as  in  name. 
That's  something.  Nobody  has  it  all  his  own  way  now,  sir. 
And  that's  something,  surely." 

Eiehard,  his  face  flushing  suddenly,  strikes  the  desk  with 
his  clinched  hand. 

"Mr.  Vholes!  If  any  man  had  told  me,  when  I  first  went 
to  John  Jarndyce's  house,  that  he  was  anything  but  the  dis- 
interested friend  he  seemed  —  that  he  was  what  he  has 
gradually  turned  out  to  be  —  I  could  have  found  no  words 
strong  enough  to  repel  the  slander ;  I  could  not  have  defended 
him  too  ardently.  So  little  did  I  know  of  the  world ! 
Whereas,  now,  I  do  declare  to  you  that  he  becomes  to  me  the 
embodiment  of  the  suit ;  that,  in  place  of  its  being  an  abstrac- 
tion, it  is  John  Jarndyce  ;  that  the  more  I  suffer,  the  more 
indignant  I  am  with  him ;  that  every  new  delay,  and  every 
new  disappointment,  is  only  a  new  injury  from  John  Jarn- 
dyce^s  hand." 

"No,  no/'  says  Vholes.  "Don't  say  so.  We  ought  to  have 
patience,  all  of  us.  Besides,  I  never  disparage,  sir.  I  never 
disparage." 

"Mr.  Vholes,"  returns  the  angry  client.  "You  know  as 
well  as  I,  that  he  would  have  strangled  the  suit  if  he  could." 

"He  was  not  active  in  it,"  Mr.  Vholes  admits,  with  an 
appearance  of  reluctance.  "He  certainly  was  not  active  in 
it.  But  however,  but  however,  he  might  have  had  amiable 
intentions.    Who  can  read  the  heart,  Mr.  C  ?  " 

"You  can,"  returns  Eiehard. 

"I,  Mr.  C?" 

"  Well  enough  to  know  what  his  intentions  were.  Are,  or 
are  not,  our  interests  conflicting  ?  Tell  —  me  —  that  ?  "  says 
Eiehard,  accompanying  his  last  three  words  with  three  raps 
on  his  rock  of  trust. 

"Mr.  C,"  returns  Vholes,  immovable  in  attitude  and  never 
winking  his  hungry  eyes,  "  I  should  be  wanting  in  my  duty 
as  your  professional  adviser,  I  should  be  departing  from  my 
fidelity  to  your  interests,  if  I  represented  those  interests  as 


124 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


identical  with  the  interests  of  Mr.  Jarndyce.  They  are  no 
such  thing,  sir.  I  never  impute  motives ;  I  both  have,  and 
am,  a  father,  and  I  never  impute  motives.  But  I  must  not 
shrink  from  a  professional  duty,  even  if  it  sows  dissension  in 
families.  I  understand  you  to  be  now  consulting  me  profes- 
sionally, as  to  your  interests  ?  You  are  so  ?  I  reply  then, 
they  are  not  identical  with  those  of  Mr.  Jarndyce." 

"  Of  course  they  are  not !  "  cries  Richard.  "  You  found 
that  out,  long  ago." 

"  Mr.  C,"  returns  Vholes,  "  I  wish  to  say  no  more  of  any 
third  party  than  is  necessary.  I  wish  to  leave  my  good  name 
unsullied,  together  with  any  little  property  of  which  I  may 
become  possessed  through  industry  and  perseverance,  to  my 
daughters  Emma,  Jane,  and  Caroline.  I  also  desire  to  live  in 
amity  with  my  professional  brethren.  When  Mr.  Skimpole 
did  me  the  honor,  sir  —  I  will  not  say  the  very  high  honor, 
for  I  never  stoop  to  flattery  —  of  bringing  us  together  in  this 
room,  I  mentioned  to  you  that  I  could  offer  no  opinion  or 
advice  as  to  your  interests,  while  those  interests  were  intrusted 
to  another  member  of  the  profession.  And  I  spoke  in  such 
terms  as  I  was  bound  to  speak,  of  Kenge  and  Carboy's  office, 
which  stands  high.  You,  sir,  thought  fit  to  withdraw  your 
interests  from  that  keeping  nevertheless,  and  to  offer  them  to 
me.  You  brought  them  with  clean  hands,  sir,  and  I  accepted 
them  with  clean  hands.  Those  interests  are  now  paramount 
in  this  office.  My  digestive  functions,  as  you  may  have  heard 
me  mention,  are  not  in  a  good  state,  and  rest  might  improve 
them ;  but  I  shall  not  rest,  sir,  while  I  am  your  representative. 
Whenever  you  want  me,  you  will  find  me  here.  Summon  me 
anywhere,  and  I  will  come.  During  the  long  vacation,  sir,  I 
shall  devote  my  leisure  to  studying  your  interests  more  and 
more  closely,  and  to  making  arrangements  for  moving  heaven 
and  earth  (including,  of  course,  the  Chancellor)  after  Michael- 
mas term ;  and  when  I  ultimately  congratulate  you,  sir,"  says 
Mr.  Vholes,  with  the  severity  of  a  determined  man,  "  when  I 
ultimately  congratulate  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart,  on  your 
accession  to  fortune  —  which,  but  that  I  never  give  hopes,  I 
might  say  something  further  about  — you  will  owe  me  nothing, 
beyond  whatever  little  balance  may  be  then  outstanding  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


125 


the  costs  as  between  solicitor  and  client,  not  included  in  the 
taxed  costs  allowed  out  of  the  estate.  I  pretend  to  no  claim 
upon  you,  Mr.  C,  but  for  the  zealous  and  active  discharge  — 
not  the  languid  and  routine  discharge,  sir ;  that  much  credit  I 
stipulate  for  —  of  my  professional  duty.  My  duty  prosper- 
ously ended,  all  between  us  is  ended." 

Vholes  finally  adds,  by  way  of  rider  to  this  declaration  of 
his  principles,  that  as  Mr.  Carstone  is  about  to  rejoin  his 
regiment,  perhaps  Mr.  C  will  favor  him  with  an  order  on  his 
agent  for  twenty  pounds  on  account. 

"For  there  have  been  many  little  consultations  and  attend- 
ances of  late,  sir,"  observes  Vholes,  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  his  Diary,  "  and  these  things  mount  up,  and  I  don't  profess 
to  be  a  man  of  capital.  When  we  first  entered  on  our  present 
relations,  I  stated  to  you  openly  —  it  is  a  principle  of  mine 
that  there  never  can  be  too  much  openness  between  solicitor 
and  client  — that  I  was  not  a  man  of  capital;  and  that  if 
capital  was  your  object,  you  had  better  leave  your  papers  in 
Kenge's  office.  No,  Mr.  C,  you  will  find  none  of  the  advan- 
tages, or  disadvantages,  of  capital  here,  sir.  This,"  Vholes 
gives  the  desk  one  hollow  blow  again,  "is  your  rock;  it 
pretends  to  be  nothing  more." 

The  client,  with  his  dejection  insensibly  relieved,  and  his 
vague  hopes  rekindled,  takes  pen  and  ink  and  writes  the 
draft :  not  without  perplexed  consideration  and  calculation  of 
the  date  it  may  bear,  implying  scant  effects  in  the  agent's 
hands.  All  the  while,  Vholes,  buttoned  up  in  body  and  mind, 
looks  at  him  attentively.  All  the  while,  Vholes's  official  cat 
watches  the  mouse's  hole. 

Lastly,  the  client,  shaking  hands,  beseeches  Mr.  Vholes, 
for  Heaven's  sake  and  Earth's  sake,  to  do  his  utmost,  to 
"pull  him  through"  the  Court  of  Chancery.  Mr.  Vholes, 
who  never  gives  hopes,  lays  his  palm  upon  the  client's 
shoulder,  and  answers  with  a  smile,  "  Always  here,  sir. 
Personally,  or  by  letter,  you  will  always  find  me  here,  sir, 
with  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel."  Thus  they  part;  and 
Vholes,  left  alone,  employs  himself  in  carrying  sundry  little 
matters  out  of  his  Diary  into  his  draft  bill  book,  for  the 
ultimate  behoof  of  his  three  daughters.    So  might  an  indus- 


126 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


trious  fox,  or  bear,  make  up  his  account  of  chickens  or  stray 
travellers  with  an  eye  to  his  cubs ;  not  to  disparage  by  that 
word  the  three  raw-visaged,  lank,  and  buttoned-up  maidens, 
who  dwell  with  the  parent  Vholes  in  an  earthy  cottage  situated 
in  a  damp  garden  at  Kennington. 

Eichard,  emerging  from  the  heavy  shade  of  Symond's  Inn 
into  the  sunshine  of  Chancery  Lane  —  for  there  happens  to  be 
sunshine  there  to-day  —  walks  thoughtfully  on,  and  turns  into 
Lincoln's  Inn,  and  passes  under  the  shadow  of  the  Lincoln's 
Inn  trees.  On  many  such  loungers  have  the  speckled  shadows 
of  those  trees  often  fallen ;  on  the  like  bent  head,  the  bitten 
nail,  the  lowering  eye,  the  lingering  step,  the  purposeless  and 
dreamy  air,  the  good  consuming  and  consumed,  the  life  turned 
sour.  This  lounger  is  not  shabby  yet,  but  that  may  come. 
Chancery,  which  knows  no  wisdom  but  in  Precedent,  is  very 
rich  in  such  Precedents ;  and  why  should  one  be  different  \ 
from  ten  thousand  ? 

Yet  the  time  is  so  short  since  his  depreciation  began,  that ! 
as  he  saunters  away,  reluctant  to  leave  the  spot  for  some  long 
months  together,  though  he  hates  it,  Richard  himself  may  feel  i 
his  own  case  as  if  it  were  a  startling  one.    While  his  heart  is 
heavy  with  corroding  care,  suspense,  distrust,  and  doubt,  it 
may  have  room  for  some  sorrowful  wonder  when  he  recalls  j 
how  different  his  first  visit  there,  how  different  he,  how  differ-  j 
ent  all  the  colors  of  his  mind.    But  injustice  breeds  injus-'i 
tice  ;  the  fighting  with  shadows  and  being  defeated  by  them,? 
necessitates  the  setting  up  of  substances  to  combat;  from  the  I 
impalpable  suit  which  no  man  alive  can  understand,  the  time  j 
for  that  being  long  gone  by,  it  has  become  a  gloomy  relief  to  i 
turn  to  the  palpable  figure  of  the  friend  who  would  have  saved  j 
him  from  this  ruin,  and  make  him  his  enemy.    Eichard  has  | 
told  Vholes  the  truth.    Is  he  in  a  hardened  or  a  softened  j 
mood,  he  still  lays  his  injuries  equally  at  that  door;  lie 
was  thwarted,  in  that  quarter,  of  a  set  purpose,  and  that  | 
purpose  could  only  originate  in  the  one  subject  that  is  re- 1 
solving  his  existence  into  itself ;  besides,  it  is  a  justification 
to  him  in  his  own  eyes  to  have  an  embodied  antagonist  and  | 
oppressor. 

Is  Eichard  a  monster  in  all  this,  —  or  would  Chancery  be 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


127 


found  rich  in  such  Precedents  too,  if  they  could  be  got  for 
citation  from  the  Recording  Angel  ? 

Two  pairs  of  eyes  not  unused  to  such  people  look  after  him, 
as,  biting  his  nails  and  brooding,  he  crosses  the  square,  and 
is  swallowed  up  by  the  shadow  of  the  southern  gateway.  Mr. 
Guppy  and  Mr.  Weevle  are  the  possessors  of  those  eyes,  and 
they  have  been  leaning  in  conversation  against  the  low  stone 
parapet  under  the  trees.  He  passed  close  by  them,  seeing 
nothing  but  the  ground. 

"  William,"  says  Mr.  Weevle,  adjusting  his  whiskers ; 
"there's  combustion  going  on  there!  It's  not  a  case  of 
Spontaneous,  but  it's  smouldering  combustion  it  is." 

"  Ah ! "  says  Mr.  Guppy,  "  he  wouldn't  keep  out  of  Jarn- 
dyce,  and  I  suppose  he's  over  head  and  ears  in  debt.  I  never 
knew  much  of  him.  He  was  as  high  as  the  Monument  when 
he  was  on  trial  at  our  place.  A  good  riddance  to  me,  whether 
as  clerk  or  client !  Well,  Tony,  that  as  I  was  mentioning  is 
what  they're  up  to." 

Mr.  Guppy,  refolding  his  arms,  resettles  himself  against  the 
parapet,  as  resuming  a  conversation  of  interest. 

"They  are  still  up  to  it,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  "still  taking 
stock,  still  examining  papers,  still  going  over  the  heaps 
and  heaps  of  rubbish.  At  this  rate  they'll  be  at  it  these 
seven  years." 

"And  Small  is  helping  ?  " 

"Small  left  us  at  a  week's  notice.  Told  Kenge,  his  grand- 
father's business  was  too  much  for  the  old  gentleman,  and  he 
could  better  himself  by  undertaking  it.  There  had  been  a 
coolness  between  myself  and  Small  on  account  of  his  being  so 
close.  But  he  said  you  and  I  began  it ;  and  as  he  had  me 
there  —  for  we  did  —  I  put  our  acquaintance  on  the  old  foot- 
ing.   That's  how  I  come  to  know  what  they're  up  to." 

"  You  haven't  looked  in  at  all  ?  " 

"  Tony,"  says  Mr.  Guppy,  a  little  disconcerted,  "  to  be  un- 
reserved with  you,  I  don't  greatly  relish  the  house,  except  in 
your  company,  and  therefore  I  have  not;  and  therefore  I 
proposed  this  little  appointment  for  our  fetching  away  your 
things.  There  goes  the  hour  by  the  clock !  Tony ; "  Mr. 
Guppy  becomes  mysteriously  and  tenderly  eloquent;  "it  is 


128 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


necessary  that  I  should  impress  upon  your  mind  once  more, 
that  circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control,  have  made  a 
melancholy  alteration  in  my  most  cherished  plans,  and  in  that 
unrequited  image  which  I  formerly  mentioned  to  you  as  a 
friend.  That  image  is  shattered,  and  that  idol  is  laid  low. 
My  only  wish  now,  in  connection  with  the  objects  which  I  had 
an  idea  of  carrying  out  in  the  court,  with  your  aid  as  a  friend, 
is  to  let  Jem  alone  and  bury  'em  in  oblivion.  Do  you  think  it 
possible,  do  you  think  it  at  all  likely  (I  put  it  to  you,  Tony, 
as  a  friend),  from  your  knowledge  of  that  capricious  and  deep 
old  character  who  fell  a  prey  to  the  —  Spontaneous  element ; 
do  you,  Tony,  think  it  at  all  likely  that,  on  second  thoughts, 
he  put  those  letters  away  anywhere,  after  you  saw  him  alive, 
and  that  they  were  not  destroyed  that  night  ?  " 

Mr.  Wee  vie   reflects  for  some  time.     Shakes  his  head. 
Decidedly  thinks  not. 

"  Tony/7  says  Mr.  Guppy,  as  they  walk  towards  the  court, 
"  once  again  understand  me,  as  a  friend.  Without  entering 
into  further  explanations,  I  may  repeat  that  the  idol  is  down. 
I  have  no  purpose  to  serve  now,  but  burial  in  oblivion.  To 
that  I  have  pledged  myself.  I  owe  it  to  myself,  and  I  owe  it 
to  the  shattered  image,  as  also  to  the  circumstances  over  which 
I  have  no  control.  If  you  was  to  express  to  me  by  a  gesture, 
by  a  wink,  that  you  saw  lying  anywhere  in  your  late  lodgings, 
any  papers  that  so  much  as  looked  like  the  papers  in  question, 
I  would  pitch  them  into  the  fire,  sir,  on  my  own  responsi-  i 
bility."  | 

Mr.  Weevle  nods.    Mr.  Guppy,  much  elevated  in  his  own  | 
opinion  by  having  delivered  these  observations,  with  an  air  in  j 
part  forensic  and  in  part  romantic  —  this  gentleman  having  a 
passion  for  conducting  anything  in  the  form  of  an  examina- 
tion, or  delivering  anything  in  the  form  of  a  summing  up  or  a 
speech  —  accompanies  his  friend  with  dignity  to  the  court. 

Never,  since  it  has  been  a  court,  has  it  had  such  a  For- 
tunatus's  purse  of  gossip  as  in  the  proceedings  at  the  rag  and 
bottle  shop.  Eegularly,  every  morning  at  eight,  is  the  elder 
Mr.  Smallweed  brought  down  to  the  corner  and  carried  in, 
accompanied  by  Mrs.  Smallweed,  Judy,  and  Bart ;  and 
regularly,  all  day,  do  they  all  remain  there  until  nine  at 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


129 


night,  solaced  by  gypsy  dinners,  not  abundant  in  quantity, 
from  the  cook's  shop  ;  rummaging  and  searching,  digging, 
delving,  and  diving  among  the  treasures  of  the  late  lamented. 
What  those  treasures  are,  they  keep  so  secret,  that  the  court 
is  maddened.  In  its  delirium  it  imagines  guineas  pouring 
out  of  teapots,  crown-pieces  overflowing  punch-bowls,  old 
chairs  and  mattresses  stuffed  with  Bank  of  England  notes.  It 
possesses  itself  of  the  sixpenny  history  (with  highly  colored 
folding  frontispiece)  of  Mr.  Daniel  Dancer  and  his  sister,  and 
also  of  Mr.  Elwes,  of  Suffolk,  and  transfers  all  the  facts  from 
those  authentic  narratives  to  Mr.  Krook.  Twice  when  the 
dustman  is  called  in  to  carry  off  a  cartload  of  old  paper,  ashes, 
and  broken  bottles,  the  whole  court  assembles  and  pries  into 
the  baskets  as  they  come  forth.  Many  times  the  two  gentle- 
men who  write  with  the  ravenous  little  pens  on  the  tissue 
paper  are  seen  prowling  in  the  neighborhood  —  shy  of  each 
other,  their  late  partnership  being  dissolved.  The  Sol  skilfully 
carries  a  vein  of  the  prevailing  interest  through  the  Harmonic 
nights.  Little  Swills,  in  what  are  professionally  known  as 
u patter"  allusions  to  the  subject,  is  received  with  loud 
applause ;  and  the  same  vocalist  "  gags "  in  the  regular 
business  like  a  man  inspired.  Even  Miss  M.  Melvilleson,  in 
the  revived  Caledonian  melody  of  "  We're  a-nodding,"  points 
the  sentiment  that  "the  dogs  love  broo"  (whatever  the  nature 
of  that  refreshment  may  be)  with  such  archness,  and  such  a 
turn  of  the  head  towards  next  door,  that  she  is  immediately 
understood  to  mean,  Mr.  Smallweed  loves  to  find  money,  and 
is  nightly  honored  with  a  double  encore.  For  all  this,  the 
court  discovers  nothing ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Piper  and  Mrs.  Perkins 
now  communicate  to  the  late  lodger  whose  appearance  is  the 
signal  for  a  general  rally,  it  is  in  one  continual  ferment  to 
discover  everything,  and  more. 

Mr.  Weevle  and  Mr.  Guppy,  with  every  eye  in  the  court's 
head  upon  them,  knock  at  the  closed  door  of  the  late  lamented's 
house,  in  a  high  state  of  popularity.  But,  being  contrary  to 
the  court's  expectation  admitted,  they  immediately  become 
unpopular,  and  are  considered  to  mean  no  good. 

The  shutters  are  more  or  less  closed  all  over  the  house,  and 
the  ground  floor  is  sufficiently  dark  to  require  candles.  Intro- 

VOL.  II. 


130 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


duced  into  the  back  shop  by  Mr.  Smallweed  the  younger, 
they,  fresh  from  the  sunlight,  can  at  first  see  nothing  save 
darkness  and  shadows ;  but  they  gradually  discern  the  elder 
Mr.  Smallweed,  seated  in  his  chair  upon  the  brink  of  a  well 
or  grave  of  waste  paper;  the  virtuous  Judy  groping  therein, 
like  a  female  sexton  ;  and  Mrs.  Smallweed  on  the  level  ground 
in  the  vicinity,  snowed  up  in  a  heap  of  paper  fragments,  print 
and  manuscript,  which  would  appear  to  be  the  accumulated 
compliments  that  have  been  sent  flying  at  her  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  The  whole  party,  Small  included,  are  blackened 
with  dust  and  dirt,  and  present  a  fiendish  appearance  not 
relieved  by  the  general  aspect  of  the  room.  There  is  more 
litter  and  lumber  in  it  than  of  old,  and  it  is  dirtier  if  possible  ; 
likewise,  it  is  ghostly  with  traces  of  its  dead  inhabitant,  and 
even  with  his  chalked  writing  on  the  wall. 

On  the  entrance  of  visitors,  Mr.  Smallweed  and  Judy  simul- 
taneously fold  their  arms  and  stop  in  their  researches. 

"Aha!"  croaks  the  old  gentleman.  "How  de  do,  gentle- 
men, how  de  do  !  Come  to  fetch  your  property,  Mr.  Weevle  ? 
That's  well,  that's  well.  Ha !  ha !  We  should  have  been 
forced  to  sell  you  up,  sir,  to  pay  your  warehouse  room,  if  you 
had  left  it  here  much  longer.  You  feel  quite  at  home  here, 
again,  I  dare  say  ?    Glad  to  see  you,  glad  to  see  you ! " 

Mr.  Weevle,  thanking  him,  casts  an  eye  about.  Mr. 
Guppy's  eye  follows  Mr.  Weevle's  eye.  Mr.  Weevle's  eye 
comes  back  without  any  new  intelligence  in  it.  Mr.  Guppy's 
eye  comes  back,  and  meets  Mr.  Small  weed's  eye.  That 
engaging  old  gentleman  is  still  murmuring,  like  some  wound- 
up instrument  running  down,  "How  de  do,  sir  —  how  de  — 
how  "  —  And  then  having  run  down,  he  lapses  into  grinning 
silence,  as  Mr.  Guppy  starts  at  seeing  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  stand- 
ing in  the  darkness  opposite,  with  his  hands  behind  him. 

"  Gentleman  so  kind  as  to  act  as  my  solicitor,"  says  Grand- 
father Smallweed.  "  I  am  not  the  sort  of  client  for  a  gentle- 
man of  such  note  ;  but  he  is  so  good  !  " 

Mr.  Guppy  slightly  nudging  his  friend  to  take  another  look, 
makes  a  shuffling  bow  to  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  who  returns  it 
with  an  easy  nod.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  is  looking  on  as  if  he 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  were  rather  amused  by  the  novelty. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


131 


"A  good  deal  of  property  here,  sir,  I  should  say,"  Mr. 
Guppy  observes  to  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  Principally  rags  and  rubbish,  my  dear  friend !  rags  and 
rubbish !  Me  and  Bart,  and  my  granddaughter  Judy,  are 
endeavoring  to  make  out  an  inventory  of  what's  worth  any- 
thing to  sell.  But  we  haven't  come  to  much  as  yet,  we  — 
haven't  —  come  —  to  —  hah  !  " 

Mr.  Smallweed  has  run  down  again ;  while  Mr.  Weevle's 
eye,  attended  by  Mr.  Guppy's  eye,  has  again  gone  round  the 
room  and  come  back. 

"Well,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Weevle.  "We  won't  intrude  any 
longer,  if  you'll  allow  us  to  go  up-stairs." 

"  Anywhere,  my  dear  sir,  anywhere  !  You're  at  home. 
Make  yourself  so,  pray !  " 

As  they  go  up-stairs,  Mr.  Guppy  lifts  his  eyebrows 
inquiringly,  and  looks  at  Tony.  Tony  shakes  his  head.  They 
find  the  old  room  very  dull  and  dismal,  with  the  ashes  of  the 
fire  that  was  burning  on  that  memorable  night  yet  in  the  dis- 
colored grate.  They  have  a  great  disinclination  to  touch  any 
object,  and  carefully  blow  the  dust  from  it  first.  Nor  are  they 
desirous  to  prolong  their  visit :  packing  the  few  movables 
with  all  possible  speed,  and  never  speaking  above  a  whisper. 

"Look  here,"  says  Tony,  recoiling.  "Here's  that  horrible 
cat  coming  in  !  " 

Mr.  Guppy  retreats  behind  a  chair.  "  Small  told  me  of 
her.  She  went  leaping  and  bounding  and  tearing  about,  that 
night,  like  a  Dragon,  and  got  out  on  the  house-top,  and 
roamed  about  up  there  for  a  fortnight,  and  then  came  tum- 
bling down  the  chimney  very  thin.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
brute  ?  Looks  as  if  she  knew  all  about  it,  don't  she  ?  Almost 
looks  as  if  she  was  Krook.    Shoohoo  !    Get  out,  you  goblin  !  " 

Lady  Jane  in  the  doorway,  with  her  tiger-snarl  from  ear  to 
ear,  and  her  club  of  a  tail,  shows  no  intention  of  obeying ; 
but  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  stumbling  over  her,  she  spits  at  his  rusty 
legs,  and  swearing  wrathfully,  takes  her  arched  back  up-stairs. 
Possibly  to  roam  the  house-tops  again,  and  return  by  the 
chimney. 

"  Mr.  Guppy,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  "  could  I  have  a  word 
with  you  ?  " 


132 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Mr.  Guppy  is  engaged  in  collecting  the  Galaxy  Gallery  of 
British  Beauty  from  the  wall,  and  depositing,  those  works  of 
art  in  their  old  ignoble  bandbox.  "  Sir,"  he  returns,  redden- 
ing, "  I  wish  to  act  with  courtesy  towards  every  member  of 
the  profession,  and  especially,  I  am  sure,  towards  a  member  of 
it  so  well  known  as  yourself  —  I  will  truly  add,  sir,  so  distin- 
guished as  yourself.  Still,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  sir,  I  must 
stipulate  that  if  you  have  any  word  with  me,  that  word  is 
spoken  in  the  presence  of  my  friend." 

"  Oh,  indeed  ?  "  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn. 

"  Yes,  sir.  My  reasons  are  not  of  a  personal  nature  at  all ; 
but  they  are  amply  sufficient  for  myself*" 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt."  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  is  as  imperturb- 
able as  the  hearth-stone  to  which  he  has  quietly  walked. 
"The  matter  is  not  of  that  consequence  that  I  need  put  you 
to  the  trouble  of  making  any  conditions,  Mr.  Guppy."  He 
pauses  here  to  smile,  and  his  smile  is  as  dull  and  rusty  as  his  t 
pantaloons.  "  You  are  to  be  congratulated,  Mr.  Guppy  ;  you  ; 
are  a  fortunate  young  man,  sir."  : 

"  Pretty  well  so,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn ;  I  don't  complain." 

"  Complain  ?  High  friends,  free  admission  to  great  houses,  ] 
and  access  to  elegant  ladies  !  Why,  Mr.  Guppy,  there  are  : 
people  in  London  who  would  give  their  ears  to  be  you." 

Mr.  Guppy,  looking  as  if  he  would  give  his  own  reddening 
and  still  reddening  ears  to  be  one  of  those  people  at  present 
instead  of  himself,  replies,  "  Sir,  if  I  attend  to  my  profession, 
and  do  what  is  right  by  Kenge  and  Carboy,  my  friends  and 
acquaintances  are  of  no  consequence  to  them,  nor  to  any 
member  of  the  profession,  not  excepting  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  of 
the  Fields.  I  am  not  under  any  obligation  to  explain  myself 
further ;  and  with  all  respect  for  you,  sir,  and  without  offence 
—  I  repeat,  without  offence  "  — 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  " 

" —  I  don't  intend  to  do  it." 

"Quite  so,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  with  a  calm  nod. 
"  Very  good :  I  see  by  these  portraits  that  you  take  a  strong 
interest  in  the  fashionable  great,  sir  ?  " 

He  addresses  this  to  the  astounded  Tony,  who  admits  the 
soft  impeachment. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


133 


"  A  virtue  in  which  few  Englishmen  are  deficient/'  observes 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  He  has  been  standing  on  the  hearth-stone, 
with  his  back  to  the  smoked  chimney-piece,  and  now  turns 
round,  with  his  glasses  to  his  eyes.  "  Who  is  this  ?  '  Lady 
Dedlock.'  Ha !  A  very  good  likeness  in  its  way,  but  it 
wants  force  of  character.  Good-day  to  you,  gentlemen  ;  good- 
day  ! » 

When  he  has  walked  out,  Mr.  Guppy,  in  a  great  perspiration, 
nerves  himself  to  the  hasty  completion  of  the  taking  down  of 
the  Galaxy  Gallery,  concluding  with  Lady  Dedlock. 

"Tony,"  he  says  hurriedly  to  his  astonished  companion,  "let 
us  be  quick  in  putting  the  things  together,  and  in  getting  out 
of  this  place.  It  were  in  vain  longer  to  conceal  from  you, 
Tony,  that  between  myself  and  one  of  the  members  of  a  swan- 
like aristocracy  whom  I  now  hold  in  my  hand,  there  has  been 
undivulged  communication  and  association.  The  time  might 
have  been,  when  I  might  have  revealed  it  to  you.  It  never 
will  be  more.  It  is  due  alike  to  the  oath  I  have  taken,  alike 
to  the  shattered  idol,  and  alike  to  circumstances  over  which  I 
have  no  control,  that  the  whole  should  be  buried  in  oblivion. 
I  charge  you  as  a  friend,  by  the  interest  you  have  ever  testified 
in  the  fashionable  intelligence,  and  by  any  little  advances  with 
which  I  may  have  been  able  to  accommodate  you,  so  to  bury 
it  without  a  word  of  inquiry  !  " 

This  charge  Mr.  Guppy  delivers  in  a  state  little  short  of 
forensic  lunacy,  while  his  friend  shows  a  dazed  mind  in  his 
whole  head  of  hair,  and  even  in  his  cultivated  whiskers. 


134 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

NATIONAL  AND  DOMESTIC. 

England  has  been  in  a  dreadful  state  for  some  weeks. 
Lord  Coodle  would  go  out,  Sir  Thomas  Doodle  wouldn't  come 
in,  and  there  being  nobody  in  Great  Britain  (to  speak  of) 
except  Coodle  and  Doodle,  there  has  been  no  Government.  It 
is  a  mercy  that  the  hostile  meeting  between  those  two  great 
men,  which  at  one  time  seemed  inevitable,  did  not  come  off; 
because  if  both  pistols  had  taken  effect,  and  Coodle  and  Doodle 
had  killed  each  other,  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  England  must 
have  waited  to  be  governed  until  young  Coodle  and  young 
Doodle,  now  in  frocks  and  long  stockings,  were  grown  up. 
This  stupendous  national  calamity,  however,  was  averted  by 
Lord  Coodle's  making  the  timely  discovery,  that  if  in  the  heat 
of  debate  he  had  said  that  he  scorned  and  despised  the  whole 
ignoble  career  of  Sir  Thomas  Doodle,  he  had  merely  meant  to 
say  that  party  differences  should  never  induce  him  to  withhold 
from  it  the  tribute  of  his  warmest  admiration ;  while  it  as 
opportunely  turned  out,  on  the  other  hand,  that  Sir  Thomas 
Doodle  had  in  his  own  bosom  expressly  booked  Lord  Coodle 
to  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  mirror  of  virtue  and  honor.  \ 
Still  England  has  been  some  weeks  in  the  dismal  strait  of  i 
having  no  pilot  (as  was  well  observed  by  Sir  Leicester  Ded-  j 
lock)  to  weather  the  storm  ;  and  the  marvellous  part  of  the 
matter  is,  that  England  has  not  appeared  to  care  very  much 
about  it,  but  has  gone  on  eating  and  drinking  and  marrying 
and  giving  in  marriage,  as  the  old  world  did  in  the  days 
before  the  flood.    But  Coodle  knew  the  danger,  and  Doodle  j 
knew  the  danger,  and  all  their  followers  and  hangers-on  had  J 
the  clearest  possible  perception  of  the  danger.    At  last  Sir  | 
Thomas  Doodle  has  not  only  condescended  to  come  in,  but  has  | 
done  it  handsomely,  bringing  in  with  him  all  his  nephews,  all , 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


135 


his  male  cousins,  and  all  his  brothers-in-law.  So  there  is  hope 
for  the  old  ship  yet. 

Doodle  has  found  that  he  must  throw  himself  upon  the 
country — chiefly  in  the  form  of  sovereigns  and  beer.  In  this 
metamorphosed  state  he  is  available  in  a  good  many  places 
simultaneously,  and  can  throw  himself  upon  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  country  at  one  time.  Britannia  being  much 
occupied  in  pocketing  Doodle  in  the  form  of  sovereigns,  and 
swallowing  Doodle  in  the  form  of  beer,  and  in  swearing  her- 
self black  in  the  face  that  she  does  neither  —  plainly  to  the 
advancement  of  her  glory  and  morality  —  the  London  season 
comes  to  a  sudden  end,  through  all  the  Doodleites  and  Coodle- 
ites  dispersing  to  assist  Britannia  in  those  religious  exercises. 

Hence  Mrs.  Eouncewell  housekeeper  at  Chesney  Wold  fore- 
sees, though  no  instructions  have  yet  come  down,  that  the 
family  may  shortly  be  expected,  together  with  a  pretty  large 
accession  of  cousins  and  others  who  can  in  any  way  assist  the 
great  Constitutional  work.  And  hence  the  stately  old  dame, 
taking  Time  by  the  forelock,  leads  him  up  and  down  the  stair- 
cases, and  along  the  galleries  and  passages  and  through  the 
rooms,  to  witness  before  he  grows  any  older  that  everything  is 
ready ;  that  floors  are  rubbed  bright,  carpets  spread,  curtains 
shaken  out,  beds  puffed  and  patted,  still-room  and  kitchen 
cleared  for  action,  all  things  prepared  as  beseems  the  Dedlock 
dignity. 

This  present  summer  evening,  as  the  sun  goes  down,  the 
preparations  are  complete.  Dreary  and  solemn  the  old  house 
looks,  with  so  many  appliances  of  habitation,  and  with  no 
inhabitants  except  the  pictured  forms  upon  the  walls.  So  did 
these  come  and  go,  a  Dedlock  in  possession  might  have  rumi- 
nated passing  along ;  so  did  they  see  this  gallery  hushed  and 
quiet,  as  I  see  it  now ;  so  think,  as  I  think,  of  the  gap  that 
they  would  make  in  this  domain  when  they  were  gone;  so  find 
it,  as  I  find  it,  difficult  to  believe  that  it  could  be  without  them ; 
so  pass  from  my  world,  as  I  pass  from  theirs,  now  closing  the 
reverberating  door;  so  leave  no  blank  to  miss  them,  and  so 
die. 

Through  some  of  the  fiery  windows,  beautiful  from  with- 
out, and  set,  at  this  sunset  hour,  not  in  dull  gray  stone  but  in 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


a  glorious  house  of  gold,  the  light  excluded  at  the  other 
windows  pours  in,  rich,  lavish,  overflowing  like  the  summer 
plenty  in  the  land.  Then  do  the  frozen  Dedlocks  thaw. 
Strange  movements  come  upon  their  features,  as  the  shadows 
of  leaves  play  there.  A  dense  Justice  in  a  corner  is  beguiled 
into  a  wink.  A  staring  Baronet,  with  a  truncheon,  gets  a 
dimple  in  his  chin.  Down  into  the  bosom  of  a  stony  shep- 
herdess there  steals  a  fleck  of  light  and  warmth,  £nat  would 
have  done  it  good  a  hundred  years  ago.  One  ancestress  of 
Volumnia,  in  high-heeled  shoes,  very  like  her  —  casting  the 
shadow  of  that  virgin  event  before  her  full  two  centuries  — 
shoots  out  into  a  halo  and  becomes  a  saint.  A  maid  of  honor 
of  the  court  of  Charles  the  Second,  with  large  round  eyes  (and 
other  charms  to  correspond),  seems  to  bathe  in  glowing  water, 
and  it  ripples  as  it  glows. 

But  the  fire  of  the  sun  is  dying.    Even  now  the  floor  is 
dusky,  and  shadow  slowly  mounts  the  walls,  bringing  the  i 
Dedlocks  down  like  age  and  death.    And  now,  upon  my  lady's  i 
picture  over  the  great  chimney-piece,  a  weird  shade  falls  from  ; 
some  old  tree,  that  turns  it  pale,  and  flutters  it,  and  looks  as 
if  a  great  arm  held  a  veil  or  hood,  watching  an  opportunity  to  i 
draw  it  over  her.    Higher  and  darker  rises  shadow  on  the  wall 
—  now  a  red  gloom  on  the  ceiling  —  now  the  fire  is  out. 

All  that  prospect,  which  from  the  terrace  looked  so  near, 
has  moved  solemnly  away,  and  changed  —  not  the  first  or  the 
last  of  beautiful  things  that  look  so  near  and  will  so  change —  | 
into  a  distant  phantom.    Light  mists  arise,  and  the  dew  falls,  j 
and  all  the  sweet  scents  in  the  garden  are  heavy  in  the  air.  ' 
Now,  the  woods  settle  into  great  masses  as  if  they  were  each 
one  profound  tree.  r  And  now  the  moon  rises,  to  separate  them,  I 
and  to  glimmer  here  and  there  in  horizontal  lines  behind  their 
stems,  and  to  make  the  avenue  a  pavement  of  light  among  high 
cathedral  arches  fantastically  broken. 

Now,  the  moon  is  high ;  and  the  great  house,  needing 
habitation  more  than  ever,  is  like  a  body  without  life.  Now, 
it  is  even  awful,  stealing  through  it,  to  think  of  the  live  peo- 
ple who  have  slept  in  the  solitary  bedrooms :  to  say  nothing  i 
of  the  dead.    Now  is  the  time  for  shadow,  when  every  corner  1 
is  a  cavern,  and  every  downward  step  a  pit,  when  the  stained 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


137 


glass  is  reflected  in  pale  and  faded  hues  upon  the  floors,  when 
anything  and  everything  can  be  made  of  the  heavy  staircase 
feeams  excepting  their  own  proper  shapes,  when  the  armor  has 
dull  lights  upon  it  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from  stealthy 
movement,  and  when  barred  helmets  are  frightfully  suggestive 
of  heads  inside.  But,  of  all  the  shadows  in  Chesney  Wold,  the 
shadow  in  the  long  drawing-room  upon  my  Lady's  picture  is 
the  first  to  come,  the  last  to  be  disturbed.  At  this  hour  and 
by  this  light  it  changes  into  threatening  hands  raised  up,  and 
menacing  the  handsome  face  with  every  breath  that  stirs. 

"She  is  not  well,  ma'am,"  says  a  groom  in  Mrs.  Kounce- 
well's  audience-chamber. 

"  My  Lady  not  well  ?    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Why,  my  Lady  has  been  but  poorly,  ma'am,  since  she  was 
last  here  —  I  don't  mean  with  the  family,  ma'am,  but  when 
she  was  here  as  a  bird  of  passage-like.  My  Lady  has  not  been 
out  much,  for  her,  and  has  kept  her  room  a  good  deal." 

"Chesney  Wold,  Thomas,"  rejoins  the  housekeeper,  with 
proud  complacency,  "  will  set  my  Lady  up  !  There  is  no  finer 
air,  and  no  healthier  soil,  in  the  world  ! " 

Thomas  may  have  his  own  personal  opinions  on  this  sub- 
ject; probably  hints  them,  in  his  manner  of  smoothing  his 
sleek  head  from  the  nape  of  his  neck  to  his  temples ;  but  he 
forbears  to  express  them  further,  and  retires  to  the  servants' 
hall  to  regale  on  cold  meat-pie  and  ale. 

This  groom  is  the  pilot-fish  before  the  nobler  shark.  Next 
evening,  down  come  Sir  Leicester  and  my  Lady  with  their 
largest  retinue,  and  down  come  the  cousins  and  others  from  all 
the  points  of  the  compass.  Thenceforth  for  some  weeks,  back- 
ward and  forward  rush  mysterious  men  with  no  names,  who 
fly  about  all  those  particular  parts  of  the  country  on  which 
Doodle  is  at  present  throwing  himself  in  an  auriferous  and 
malty  shower,  but  who  are  merely  persons  of  a  restless  dis- 
position and  never  do  anything  anywhere. 

On  these  national  occasions,  Sir  Leicester  finds  the  cousins 
useful.  A  better  man  than  the  Honorable  Bob  Stables  to  meet 
the  Hunt  at  dinner,  there  could  not  possibly  be.  Better  got 
up  gentlemen  than  the  other  cousins,  to  ride  over  to  polling- 
booths  and  hustings  here  and  there,  and  show  themselves  on 


138 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


the  side  of  England,  it  would  be  hard  to  find.    Volumnia  is  a  I 
little  dim,  but  she  is  of  the  true  descent ;  and  there  are  many  j 
who  appreciate  her  sprightly  conversation,  her  French  conu*-  j 
drums  so  old  as  to  have  become  in  the  cycles  of  time  almost  ![ 
new  again,  the  honor  of  taking  the  fair  Dedlock  in  to  dinner,  I 
or  even  the  privilege  of  her  hand  in  the  dance.    On  these 
national  occasions,  dancing  may  be  a  patriotic  service;  and 
Volumnia  is  constantly  seen  hopping  about,  for  the  good  of  an 
ungrateful  and  unpensioning  country. 

My  Lady  takes  no  great  pains  to  entertain  the  numerous 
guests,  and,  being  still  unwell,  rarely  appears  until  late  in  the 
day.  But,  at  all  the  dismal  dinners,  leaden  lunches,  basilisk 
balls,  and  other  melancholy  pageants,  her  mere  presence  is  a 
relief.  As  to  Sir  Leicester,  he  conceives  it  utterly  impossible 
that  anything  can  be  wanting  in  any  direction,  by  any  one  who 
has  the  good  fortune  to  be  received  under  that  roof;  and  in  a< 
state  of  sublime  satisfaction,  he  moves  among  the  company,, 
a  magnificent  refrigerator. 

Daily  the  cousins  trot  through  dust,  and  canter  over  road- 
side turf,  away  to  hustings  and  polling-booths  (with  leather 
gloves  and  hunting-whips  for  the  counties,  and  kid  gloves  and; 
riding-canes  for  the  boroughs),  and  daily  bring  back  reports^ 
on  which  Sir  Leicester  holds  forth  after  dinner.  Daily  the, 
restless  men  who  have  no  occupation  in  life,  present  the 
appearance  of  being  rather  busy.  Daily,  Volumnia  has  a 
little  cousinly  talk  with  Sir  Leicester  on  the  state  of  the, 
nation,  from  which  Sir  Leicester  is  disposed  to  conclude  thati 
Volumnia  is  a  more  reflecting  woman  than  he  had  thought? 
her. 

"How  are  we  getting  on?"  says  Miss  Volumnia,  clasping 
her  hands.    "Are  we  safe  ?  " 

The  mighty  business  is  nearly  over  by  this  time,  and  Doodle: 
will  throw  himself  off  the  country  in  a  few  days  more.  Sir 
Leicester  has  just  appeared  in  the  long  drawing-room  after  din- 
ner ;  a  bright  particular  star,  surrounded  by  clouds  of  cousins.;, 

"Volumnia."  replies  Sir  Leicester,  who  has  a  list  in  hisl 
hand,  "we  are  doing  tolerably."  J 

"  Only  tolerably  !  "  i 

Although  it  is  summer  weather,  Sir  Leicester  always  hasi 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


139 


his  own  particular  fire  in  the  evening.  He  takes  his  usual 
screened  seat  near  it,  and  repeats,  with  much  firmness  and  a 
little  displeasure,  as  who  should  say  I  am  not  a  common  man, 
and  when  I  say  tolerably,  it  must  not  be  understood  as  a  com- 
mon expression ;  "  Volumnia,  we  are  doing  tolerably." 

" At  least  there  is  no  opposition  to  you"  Volumnia  asserts 
with  confidence. 

"  No,  Volumnia.  This  distracted  country  has  lost  its  senses 
in  many  respects,  I  grieve  to  say,  but "  — 

"  It  is  not  so  mad  as  that.    I  am  glad  to  hear  it ! " 

Volumnia's  finishing  the  sentence  restores  her  to  favor.  Sir 
Leicester,  with  a  gracious  inclination  of  his  head,  seems  to  say 
to  himself,  "A  sensible  woman  this,  on  the  whole,  though 
occasionally  precipitate." 

In  fact,  as  to  this  question  of  opposition,  the  fair  Dedlock's 
observation  was  superfluous  :  Sir  Leicester,  on  these  occasions, 
always  delivering  in  his  own  candidateship,  as  a  kind  of  hand- 
some wholesale  order  to  be  promptly  executed.  Two  other 
little  seats  that  belong  to  him,  he  treats  as  retail  orders  of  less 
importance ;  merely  sending  down  the  men,  and  signifying  to 
the  tradespeople,  "  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  make  these 
materials  into  two  members  of  parliament,  and  to  send  them 
home  when  done." 

"  I  regret  to  say,  Volumnia,  that  in  many  places  the  people 
have  shown  a  bad  spirit,  and  that  this  opposition  to  the  Gov- 
ernment has  been  of  a  most  determined  and  most  implacable 
description." 

"W-r-retches  !"  says  Volumnia. 

"Even/7  proceeds  Sir  Leicester,  glancing  at  the  circumjacent 
cousins  on  sofas  and  ottomans,  "even  in  many  —  in  fact,  in 
most  —  of  those  places  in  which  the  Government  has  carried 
it  against  a  faction  "  — 

(Note,  by  the  way,  that' the  Coodleites  are  always  a  faction 
with  the  Doodleites,  and  that  the  Doodleites  occupy  exactly 
the  same  position  towards  the  Coodleites.) 

" —  Even  in  them  I  am  shocked,  for  the  credit  of  English- 
men, to  be  constrained  to  inform  you  that  the  Party  has  not 
rium phed  without  being  put  to  an  enormous  expense.  Hun- 
ireds,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  eying  the  cousins  with  increasing 


140 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


dignity  and  swelling  indignation,  "  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 

pounds ! " 

If  Volumnia  have  a  fault,  it  is  the  fault  of  being  a  trifle  too 
innocent ;  seeing  that  the  innocence  which  would  go  extremely 
well  with  a  sash  and  tucker,  is  a  little  out  of  keeping  with  the 
rouge  and  pearl  necklace.    Howbeit,  impelled  by  innocence, 

see  asks,  — 
"  What  for  ?  " 

"Volumnia,"  remonstrates  Sir  Leicester,  with  his  utmost 
severity.    "  Volumnia  !  " 

"No,  no,  I  don't  mean  what  for,"  cries  Volumnia,  with  her 
favorite  little  scream.  "  How  stupid  I  am.  I  mean  what  a 
pity!" 

"  I  am  glad,"  returns  Sir  Leicester,  "  that  you  do  mean  what 
a  pity." 

Volumnia  hastens  to  express  her  opinion  that  the  shocking 
people  ought  to  be  tried  as  traitors,  and  made  to  support  the  j 
Party. 

"  I  am  glad,  Volumnia,"  repeats  Sir  Leicester,  unmindful  of  ! 
these  mollifying  sentiments,  "that  you  do  mean  what  a  pity. 
It  is  disgraceful  to  the  electors.    But  as  you,  though  inadver-  i 
tently,  and  without  intending  so  unreasonable  a  question,  asked  1 
me  <  what  for  ? ?  let  me  reply  to  you.    For  necessary  expenses. 
And  I  trust  to  your  good-sense,  Volumnia,  not  to  pursue  the 
subject,  here  or  elsewhere." 

Sir  Leicester  feels  it  incumbent  on  him  to  observe  a  crushing  | 
aspect  towards  Volumnia,  because  it  is  whispered  abroad  that  j 
these  necessary  expenses  will,  in  some  two  hundred  election  « 
petitions,  be  unpleasantly  connected  with  the  word  bribery ;  | 
and  because  some  graceless  jokers  have  consequently  suggested  1 
the  omission  from  the  Church  service  of  the  ordinary  sup- 
plication in  behalf  of  the  High  Court  of  Parliament,  and  have 
recommended  instead  that  the  prayers  of  the  congregation  be 
requested  for  six  hundred  and  fifty-eight  gentlemen  in  a  very 
unhealthy  state. 

"  I  suppose,"  observes  Volumnia,  having  taken  a  little  time 
to  recover  her  spirits  after  her  late  castigation,  "  I  suppose  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn  has  been  worked  to  death." 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  opening  his  eyes,  "why 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


141 


Mr.  Tulkinghorn  should  be  worked  to  death.  I  don't  know 
what  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  engagements  may  be.  He  is  not  a 
candidate." 

Volumnia  had  thought  he  might  have  been  employed. 
Sir  Leicester  could  desire  to  know  by  whom,  and  what  for? 
Volumnia,  abashed  again,  suggests,  by  Somebody  —  to  advise 
and  make  arrangements.  Sir  Leicester  is  not  aware  that 
any  client  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  been  in  need  of  his 
assistance. 

Lady  Dedlock  seated  at  an  open  window  with  her  arm  upon 
its  cushioned  ledge  and  looking  out  at  the  evening  shadows 
falling  on  the  park,  has  seemed  to  attend  since  the  lawyer's 
name  was  mentioned. 

A  languid  cousin  with  a  mustache,  in  a  state  of  extreme 
debility,  now  observes  from  his  couch,  that  —  man  told  him 
ya'as'dy  that  Tulkinghorn  had  gone  down  to  t'that  iron  place 
t'give  legal  'pinion  'bout  something ;  and  that,  contest  being 
over  t'day,  'twould  be  highly  jawlly  thing  if  Tulkinghorn 
should  pear  with  news  that  Coodle  man  was  floored. 

Mercury  in  attendance  with  coffee  informs  Sir  Leicester, 
hereupon,  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  arrived,  and  is  taking 
dinner.  My  lady  turns  her  head  inward,  for  the  moment, 
then  looks  out  again  as  before. 

Volumnia  is  charmed  to  hear  that  her  Delight  is  come. 
He  is  so  original,  such  a  stolid  creature,  such  an  immense 
being  for  knowing  all  sorts  of  things  and  never  telling  them  ! 
Volumnia  is-  persuaded  that  he  must  be  a  freemason.  Is  sure 
he  is  at  the  head  of  a  lodge,  and  wears  short  aprons,  and 
is  made  a  perfect  Idol  of,  with  candlesticks  and  trowels. 
These  lively  remarks  the  fair  Dedlock  delivers  in  her  youthful 
manner,  while  making  a  purse. 

"  He  has  not  been  here  once,"  she  adds,  "  since  I  came.  I 
really  had  some  thoughts  of  breaking  my  heart  for  the 
inconstant  creature.  I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  that  he 
was  dead." 

It  may  be  the  gathering  gloom  of  evening,  or  it  may  be  the 
darker  gloom  within  herself,  but  a  shade  is  on  my  Lady's 
face,  as  if  she  thought,  "I  would  he  were  ! " 

"  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  "  is  always  welcome 


142 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


here,  and  always  discreet  wheresoever  he  is.  A  very  valuable 
person,  and  deservedly  respected." 

The  debilitated  cousin  supposes  he  is  "'normously  rich 
fler." 

"He  has  a  stake  in  the  country,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  "I 
have  no  doubt.  He  is,  of  course,  handsomely  paid,  and  he 
associates  almost  on  a  footing  of  equality  with  the  highest 
society." 

Everybody  starts.    For  a  gun  is  fired  close  by. 

"  Good  gracious,  what's  that  ?  "  cries  Volumnia  with  her 
little  withered  scream. 

"  A  rat,"  says  my  Lady.    "  And  they  have  shot  him." 

Enter  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  followed  by  Mercuries  with  lamps 
and  candles. 

"No,  no,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  "I  think  not.  My  Lady,  do 
you  object  to  the  twilight  ?  " 

On  the  contrary,  my  Lady  prefers  it. 
"  Volumnia  ?  " 

0  !  nothing  is  so  delicious  to  Volumnia,  as  to  sit  and  talk 
in  the  dark. 

"  Then  take  them  away,"  says  Sir  Leicester.  "  Tulkinghorn, 
I  beg  your  pardon.    How  do  you  do  ?  " 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  with  his  usual  leisurely  ease  advances, 
renders  his  passing  homage  to  my  Lady,  shakes  Sir  Leicester's 
hand,  and  subsides  into  the  chair  proper  to  him  when  he  has 
anything  to  communicate,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Baronet's  j 
little  newspaper  table.    Sir  Leicester  is  apprehensive  that  my  \ 
Lady,  not  being  very  well,  will  take  cold  at  that  open  window.'! 
My  Lady  is  obliged  to  him,  but  would  rather  sit  there  for  thej 
air.    Sir  Leicester  rises,  adjusts  her  scarf  about  her,  and; 
returns  to  his  seat.    Mr.  Tulkinghorn  in  the  mean  while  takes 
a  pinch  of  snuff. 

"Now,"  says  Sir  Leicester.    "How  has  that  contest  gone?" 

"Oh,  hollow  from  the  beginning.  Not  a  chance.  They 
have  brought  in  both  their  people.  You  are  beaten  out  of  all 
reason.    Three  to  one." 

It  is  a  part  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  policy  and  mastery  to  have 
no  political  opinions  ;  indeed,  no  opinions.  Therefore  he  says 
"you"  are  beaten,  and  not  "we." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


143 


Sir  Leicester  is  majestically  wroth.  Volumnia  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing.  The  debilitated  cousin  holds  that  it's  —  sort 
of  thing  that's  sure  tapn  slongs  votes  —  giv'n  —  Mob. 

"  It's  the  place,  you  know/'  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  goes  on  to 
say  in  the  fast  increasing  darkness,  when  there  is  silence 
again,  "  where  they  wanted  to  put  up  Mrs.  Kouncewell's  son." 

"A  proposal  which,  as  you  correctly  informed  me  at  the 
time,  he  had  the  becoming  taste  and  perception,"  observes  Sir 
Leicester,  "to  decline.  I  cannot  say  that  I  by  any  means 
approve  of  the  sentiments  expressed  by  Mr.  Rouncewell,  when 
he  was  here  for  some  half-hour,  in  this  room ;  but  there  was 
a  sense  of  propriety  in  his  decision  which  I  am  glad  to 
acknowledge." 

"Ha!"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  "It  did  not  prevent  him 
from  being  very  active  in  this  election,  though." 

Sir  Leicester  is  distinctly  heard  to  gasp  before  speaking. 
"  Did  I  understand  you  ?  Did  you  say  that  Mr.  Eouncewell 
had  been  very  active  in  this  election  ?  " 

"Uncommonly  active." 

"  Against "  — 

"0  dear  yes,  against  you.  He  is  a  very  good  speaker. 
Plain  and  emphatic.  He  made  a  damaging  effect,  and  has 
great  influence.  In  the  business  part  of  the  proceedings  he 
carried  all  before  him." 

It  is  evident  to  the  whole  company,  though  nobody  can  see 
him,  that  Sir  Leicester  is  staring  majestically. 

"And  he  was  much  assisted,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  as  a 
wind-up,  "by  his  son." 

"By  his  son,  sir?"  repeats  Sir  Leicester,  with  awful 
politeness. 

"By  his  son." 

"  The  son  who  wished  to  marry  the  young  woman  in  my 
Lady's  service  ?" 

"  That  son.    He  has  but  one." 

"  Then,  upon  my  honor,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  after  a  terrific 
pause,  during  which  he  has  been  heard  to  snort  and  felt  to 
stare;  "then  upon  my  honor,  upon  my  life,  upon  my  reputa- 
tion and  principles,  the  floodgates  of  society  are  burst  open, 
and  the  waters   have  —  a  —  obliterated  the  landmarks  of 


144 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


the  framework  of  the  cohesion  by  which  things  are  held 
together ! " 

General  burst  of  cousinly  indignation.  Volumnia  thinks  it 
is  really  high  time,  you  know,  for  somebody  in  power  to  step 
in  and  do  something  strong.  Debilitated  cousin  thinks  — 
Country's  going  —  Dayvle  —  steeple-chase  pace. 

"  I  beg,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  in  a  breathless  condition,  "  that 
we  may  not  comment  further  on  this  circumstance.  Comment 
is  superfluous.  My  Lady,  let  me  suggest  m  reference  to  that 
young  woman  "  — 

"  I  have  no  intention,"  observes  my  Lady  from  her  window, 
in  a  low  but  decided  tone,  "  of  parting  with  her." 

"That  was  not  my  meaning,"  returns  Sir  Leicester.  "I 
am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  would  suggest  that  as  you 
think  her  worthy  of  your  patronage,  you  should  exert  your 
influence  to  keep  her  from  these  dangerous  hands.  You 
might  show  her  what  violence  would  be  done,  in  such  asso- 
ciation, to  her  duties  and  principles ;  and  you  might  preserve 
her  for  a  better  fate.  You  might  point  out  to  her  that  she 
probably  would,  in  good  time,  find  a  husband  at  Chesney 
Wold,  by  whom  she  would  not  be  "  —  Sir  Leicester  adds,  after 
a  moment's  consideration,  "dragged  from  the  altars  of  her 
forefathers." 

These  remarks  he  offers  with  his  unvarying  politeness  and 
deference  when  he  addresses  himself  to  his  wife.  She  merely 
moves  her  head  in  reply.  The  moon  is  rising;  and  where 
she  sits  there  is  a  little  stream  of  cold  pale  light,  in  which  her 
head  is  seen. 

"  It  is  worthy  of  remark,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  "  however, 
that  these  people  are,  in  their  way,  very  proud." 

"  Proud  ?  "    Sir  Leicester  doubts  his  hearing. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised,  if  they  all  voluntarily  aban- 
doned the  girl  —  yes,  lover  and  all  —  instead  of  her  abandon- 
ing them,  supposing  she  remained  at  Chesney  Wold  under  such 
circumstances." 

"Well!"  says  Sir  Leicester,  tremulously,  "Well!  You 
should  know,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  4You  have  been  among 
them." 

"  Really,  Sir  Leicester,"  returns  the  lawyer,  "  I  state  the 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


145 


fact.  Why,  I  could  tell  you  a  story  —  with  Lady  Dedlock's 
permission." 

Her  head  concedes  it,  and  Volumnia  is  enchanted.  A  story. 
0  he  is  going  to  tell  something  at  last !  A  ghost  in  it, 
Volumnia  hopes  ? 

"  No.  Eeal  flesh  and  blood."  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  stops  for 
an  instant,  and  repeats,  with  some  little  emphasis  grafted 
upon  his  usual  monotony,  "  Eeal  flesh  and  blood,  Miss  Dedlock. 
Sir  Leicester,  these  particulars  have  only  lately  become  known 
to  me.  They  are  very  brief.  They  exemplify  what  I  have 
said.  I  suppress  names  for  the  present.  Lady  Dedlock  will 
not  thing  me  ill-bred,  I  hope." 

By  the  light  of  the  fire,  which  is  low,  he  can  be  seen  look- 
ing towards  the  moonlight.  By  the  light  of  the  moon  Lady 
Dedlock  can  be  seen,  perfectly  still. 

"A  townsman  of  this  Mrs.  Rouncewell,  a  man  in  exactly 
parallel  circumstances,  as  I  am  told,  had  the  good  fortune  to 
have  a  daughter  who  attracted  the  notice  of  a  great  lady.  I 
speak  of  really  a  great  lady  ;  not  merely  great  to  him,  but 
married  to  a  gentleman  of  your  condition,  Sir  Leicester." 

Sir  Leicester  condescendingly  says,  "Yes,  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn ; "  implying  that  then  she  must  have  appeared  of  very 
considerable  moral  dimensions  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  an 
ironmaster. 

"  The  lady  was  wealthy  and  beautiful,  and  had  a  liking  for 
the  girl,  and  treated  her  with  great  kindness,  and  kept  her 
always  near  her.  Now  this  lady  preserved  a  secret  under  all 
her  greatness,  which  she  had  preserved  for  many  years.  In 
fact,  she  had  in  early  life  been  engaged  to  marry  a  young 
rake  —  he  was  a  captain  in  the  army  —  nothing  connected  with 
whom  came  to  any  good.  She  never  did  marry  him,  but  she 
gave  birth  to  a  child  of  which  he  was  the  father." 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  he  can  be  seen  looking  towards  the 
moonlight.  By  the  moonlight,  Lady  Dedlock  can  be  seen  in 
profile,  perfectly  still. 

"  The  captain  in  the  army  being  dead,  she  believed  herself 
safe ;  but  a  train  of  circumstances  with  which  I  need  not 
trouble  you,  led  to  discovery.  As  I  received  the  story,  they 
began  in  an  imprudence  on  her  own  part  one  day,  when  she 

VOL.  II. 


146 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


was  taken  by  surprise ;  which  shows  how  difficult  it  is  for 
the  firmest  of  us  (she  was  very  firm)  to  be  always  guarded. 
There  was  great  domestic  trouble  and  amazement,  you  may 
suppose  ;  I  leave  you  to  imagine,  Sir  Leicester,  the  husband's 
grief.  But  that  is  not  the  present  point.  When  Mr.  Kounce- 
well's  townsman  heard  of  the  disclosure,  he  no  more  allowed 
the  girl  to  be  patronized  and  honored,  than  he  would  have 
suffered  her  to  be  trodden  under  foot  before  his  eyes.  Such 
was  his  pride,  that  he  indignantly  took  her  away,  as  if  from 
reproach  and  disgrace.  He  had  no  sense  of  the  honor  done 
him  and  his  daughter  by  the  lady's  condescension ;  not  the 
least.  He  resented  the  girl's  position,  as  if  the  lady  had  been 
the  commonest  of  commoners.  That  is  the  story.  I  hope 
Lady  Dedlock  will  excuse  its  painful  nature." 

There  a^e  various  opinions  on  the  merits,  more  or  less  con- 
flicting with  Volumnia's.  That  fair  young  creature  cannot 
believe  there  ever  was  any  such  lady,  and  rejects  the  whole 
history  on  the  threshold.  The  majority  incline  to  the  debili- 
tated cousin's  sentiment,  which  is  in  few  words  —  "  no  busi- 
ness—  Eouncewell's  fernal  townsman."  Sir  Leicester  gener- 
ally refers  back  in  his  mind  to  Wat  Tyler,  and  arranges  a 
sequence  of  events  on  a  plan  of  his  own. 

There  is  not  much  conversation  in  all,  for  late  hours  have 
been  kept  at  Chesney  Wold  since  the  necessary  expenses  else- 
where began,  and  this  is  the  first  night  in  many  on  which  the 
family  have  been  alone.  It  is  past  ten,  when  Sir  Leicester 
begs  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  to  ring  for  candles.  Then  the  stream 
of  moonlight  has  swelled  into  a  lake,  and  then  Lady  Dedlock 
for  the  first  time  moves,  and  rises,  and  comes  forward  to  a 
table  for  a  glass  of  water.  Winking  cousins,  bat-like  in  the 
candle  glare,  crowd  round  to  give  it ;  Volumnia  (always  ready 
for  something  better  if  procurable)  takes  another,  a  very  mild 
sip  of  which  contents  her ;  Lady  Dedlock,  graceful,  self- 
possessed,  looked  after  by  admiring  eyes,  passes  away  slowly 
down  the  long  perspective  by  the  side  of  that  Nymph,  not  at 
all  improving  her  as  a  question  of  contrast. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


147 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  MR.  TULKINGHORN's  ROOM. 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn"  arrives  in  his  turret-room,  a  little 
breathed  by  the  journey  up,  though  leisurely  performed. 
There  is  an  expression  on  his  face  as  if  he  had  discharged 
his  mind  of  some  grave  matter,  and  were,  in  his  close  way, 
satisfied.  To  say  of  a  man  so  severely  and  strictly  self- 
repressed  that  he  is  triumphant,  would  be  to  do  him  as  great 
an  injustice  as  to  suppose  him  troubled  with  love  or  senti- 
ment, or  any  romantic  weakness.  He  is  sedately  satisfied. 
Perhaps  there  is  a  rather  increased  sense  of  power  upon  him, 
as  he  loosely  grasps  one  of  his  veinous  wrists  with  his  other 
hand,  and  holding  it  behind  his  back  walks  noiselessly  up 
and  down. 

There  is  a  capacious  writing-table  in  the  room,  on  which  is 
a  pretty  large  accumulation  of  papers.  The  green  lamp  is 
lighted,  his  reading-glasses  lie  upon  the  desk,  the  easy-chair 
is  wheeled  up  to  it,  and  it  would  seem  as  though  he  had  intended 
to  bestow  an  hour  or  so  upon  these  claims  on  his  attention 
before  going  to  bed.  But  he  happens  not  to  be  in  a  business 
mind.  After  a  glance  at  the  documents  awaiting  his  notice  — 
with  his  head  bent  low  over  the  table,  the  old  man's  sight  for 
print  or  writing  being  defective  at  night  — he  opens  the  French 
window  and  steps  out  upon  the  leads.  There  he  again  walks 
slowly  up  and  down,  in  the  same  attitude  ;  subsiding,  if  a 
man  so  cool  may  have  any  need  to  subside,  from  the  story  he 
has  related  down-stairs. 

The  time  was  once,  when  men  as  knowing  as  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn  would  walk  on  turret-tops  in  the  starlight,  and  look  up 
into  the  sky  to  read  their  fortunes  there.  Hosts  of  stars  are 
visible  to-night,  though  their  brilliancy  is  eclipsed  by  the 
splendor  of  the  moon.  If  he  be  seeking  his  own  star,  as  he 
methodically  turns  and  turns  upon  the  leads,  it  should  be  but 


148 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


a  pale  one  to  be  so  rustily  represented  below.  If  he  be  tracing 
out  his  destiny,  that  may  be  written  in  other  characters 
nearer  to  his  hand. 

As  he  paces  the  leads,  with  his  eyes  most  probably  as  high 
above  his  thoughts  as  they  are  high  above  the  earth,  he  is 
suddenly  stopped  in  passing  the  window  by  two  eyes  that 
meet  his  own.  The  ceiling  of  his  room  is  rather  low ;  and  the 
upper  part  of  the  door,  which  is  opposite  the  window,  is  of 
glass.  There  is  an  inner  baize  door  too,  but  the  night  being 
warm  he  did  not  close  it  when  he  came  up-stairs.  These  eyes 
that  met  his  own,  are  looking  in  through  the  glass  from  the 
corridor  outside.  He  knows  them  well.  The  blood  has  not 
flushed  into  his  face  so  suddenly  and  redly  for  many  a  long 
year,  as  when  he  recognizes  Lady  Dedlock. 

He  steps  into  the  room,  and  she  comes  in  too,  closing  both 
the  doors  behind  her.  There  is  a  wild  disturbance  —  is  it  fear 
or  anger  ?  —  in  her  eyes.  In  her  carriage  and  all  else  she 
looks  as  she  looked  down-stairs  two  hours  ago. 

Is  it  fear  or  is  it  anger,  now  ?  He  cannot  be  sure.  Both 
might  be  as  pale,  both  as  intent. 

"  Lady  Dedlock  ?  " 

She  does  not  speak  at  first,  nor  even  when  she  has  slowly 5 
dropped  into  the  easy-chair  by  the  table.    They  look  at  each 
other,  like  two  pictures. 

"  Why  have  you  told  my  story  to  so  many  persons  ?  " 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  inform  you  that  j 
I  knew  it."  i 

"  How  long  have  you  known  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  suspected  it  a  long  while  —  fully  known  it,  a  little  < 
while." 

"  Months  ?  " 
"  Days." 

He  stands  before  her,  with  one  hand  on  a  chair-back  and 
the  other  in  his  old-fashioned  waistcoat  and  shirt-frill,  exactly 
as  he  has  stood  before  her  at  any  time  since  her  marriage. 
The  same  formal  politeness,  the  same  composed  deference 
that  might  as  well  be  defiance ;  the  whole  man  the  same 
dark,  cold  object,  at  the  same  distance,  which  nothing  has 
ever  diminished. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


149 


"  Is  this  true  concerning  the  poor  girl  ?  " 

He  slightly  inclines  and  advances  his  head,  as  not  quite 
understanding  the  question. 

"  You  know  what  you  related.  Is  it  true  ?  Do  her  friends 
know  my  story  also  ?  Is  it  the  town-talk  yet  ?  Is  it  chalked 
upon  the  walls  and  cried  in  the  streets  ?  " 

So  !  Anger,  and  fear,  and  shame.  All  three  contending. 
What  power  this  woman  has,  to  keep  these  raging  passions 
down!  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  thoughts  take  such  form  as  he 
looks  at  her,  with  his  ragged  gray  eyebrows  a  hair's  breadth 
more  contracted  than  usual,  under  her  gaze. 

"  No,  Lady  Dedlock.  That  was  a  hypothetical  case,  arising 
out  of  Sir  Leicester's  unconsciously  carrying  the  matter  with 
so  high  a  hand.  But  it  would  be  a  real  case  if  they  knew  — 
what  we  know." 

"  Then  they  do  not  know  it  yet  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Can  I  save  the  poor  girl  from  injury  before  they  know  it  ?  " 

"  Really,  Lady  Dedlock,"  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  replies,  "  I  can- 
not give  a  satisfactory  opinion  on  that  point." 

And  he  thinks,  with  the  interest  of  attentive  curiosity,  as 
he  watches  the  struggle  in  her  breast,  "  the  power  and  force 
of  this  woman  are  astonishing  !  " 

"  Sir,"  she  says,  for  the  moment  obliged  to  set  her  lips 
with  all  the  energy  she  has,  that  she  may  speak  distinctly 
"  I  will  make  it  plainer.  I  do  not  dispute  your  hypothetical 
case.  I  anticipated  it,  and  felt  its  truth  as  strongly  as  you  can 
do,  when  I  saw  Mr.  Rouncewell  here.  I  knew  very  well  that 
if  he  could  have  the  power  of  seeing  me  as  I  was,  he  would 
consider  the  poor  girl  tarnished  by  having  for  a  moment 
been,  although  most  innocently,  the  subject  of  my  great  and 
distinguished  patronage.  But,  I  have  an  interest  in  her ;  or 
I  should  rather  say  —  no  longer  belonging  to  this  place  —  I 
had ;  and  if  you  can  find  so  much  consideration  for  the  woman 
under  your  foot  as  to  remember  that,  she  will  be  very  sensible 
of  your  mercy." 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  profoundly  attentive,  throws  this  off  with 
a  shrug  of  self-depreciation,  and  contracts  his  eyebrows  a 
little  more. 


150 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  You  have  prepared  me  for  my  exposure,  and  I  thank  you 
for  that  too.  Is  there  anything  that  you  require  of  me  ?  Is 
there  any  claim  that  I  can  release,  or  any  charge  or  trouble 
that  I  can  spare  my  husband  in  obtaining  his  release,  by  cer- 
tifying to  the  exactness  of  your  discovery  ?  I  will  write  any- 
thing, here  and  now,  that  you  will  dictate.  I  am  ready  to 
do  it." 

And  she  would  do  it !  thinks  the  lawyer,  watchful  of  the 
firm  hand  with  which  she  takes  the  pen ! 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you,  Lady  Dedlock.  Pray  spare  your- 
self." 

"  I  have  long  expected  this,  as  you  know.  I  neither  wish 
to  spare  myself,  nor  to  be  spared.  You  can  do  nothing  worse 
to  me  than  you  have  done.    Do  what  remains,  now." 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  I  will  take 
leave  to  say  a  few  words,  when  you  have  finished." 

Their  need  for  watching  one  another  should  be  over  now, 
but  they  do  it  all  this  time,  and  the  stars  watch  them  both 
through  the  opened  window.  Away  in  the  moonlight  lie  the 
woodland  fields  at  rest,  and  the  wide  house  is  as  quiet  as  the 
narrow  one.  The  narrow  one  !  Where  are  the  digger  and 
the  spade,  this  peaceful  night,  destined  to  add  the  last  great 
secret  to  the  many  secrets  of  the  Tulkinghorn  existence  ?  Is 
the  man  born  yet,  is  the  spade  wrought  yet  ?  Curious  ques- 
tions to  consider,  more  curious  perhaps  not  to  consider,  under 
the  watching  stars  upon  a  summer  night. 

"  Of  repentance  or  remorse,  or  any  feeling  of  mine,"  Lady 
Dedlock  presently  proceeds,  "I  say  not  a  word.  If  I  were 
not  dumb,  you  would  be  deaf.  Let  that  go  by.  It  is  not  for 
your  ears." 

He  makes  a  feint  of  offering  a  protest,  but  she  sweeps  it 
away  with  her  disdainful  hand. 

"Of  other  and  very  different  things  I  come  to  speak  to 
you.  My  jewels  are  all  in  their  proper  places  of  keeping. 
They  will  be  found  there.  So,  my  dresses.  So,  all  the  valu- 
ables I  have.  Some  ready  money  I  had  with  me,  please  to 
say,  but  no  large  amount.  I  did  not  wear  my  own  dress,  in 
order  that  I  might  avoid  observation.  I  went  to  be  hence- 
forward lost.  Make  this  known.  I  leave  no  other  charge 
with  you." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


151 


"  Excuse  me,  Lady  Dedlock,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  quite 
unmoved.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you.  You 
went  ?  "  — 

"  To  be  lost  to  all  here.  I  leave  Chesney  Wold  to-night. 
I  go  this  hour." 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  shakes  his  head.  She  rises ;  but  he,  with- 
out removing  hand  from  chair-back  or  from  old-fashioned 
waistcoat  and  shirt-frill,  shakes  his  head. 

"  What  ?    Not  go  as  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  ]STo,  Lady  Dedlock,"  he  very  calmly  replies. 

"Do  you  know  the  relief  that  my  disappearance  will  be  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  the  stain  and  blot  upon  this  place,  and 
where  it  is,  and  who  it  iS  ?  " 

"  No,  Lady  Dedlock,  not  by  any  means." 

Without  deigning  to  rejoin,  she  moves  to  the  inner  door 
and  has  it  in  her  hand,  when  he  says  to  her,  without  himself 
stirring  hand  or  foot,  or  raising  his  voice,  — 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  have  the  goodness  to  stop  and  hear  me,  or 
before  you  reach  the  staircase  I  shall  ring  the  alarm-bell  and 
rouse  the  house.  And  then  I  must  speak  out,  -before  every 
guest  and  servant,  every  man  and  woman  in  it." 

He  has  conquered  her.  She  falters,  trembles,  and  puts  her 
hand  confusedly  to  her  head.  Slight  tokens  these  in  any  one 
else ;  but  when  so  practised  an  eye  as  Mr.  Tulkinghorn' s  sees 
indecision  for  a  moment  in  such  a  subject,  he  thoroughly 
knows  its  value. 

He  promptly  says  again,  "Have  the  goodness  to  hear  me, 
Lady  Dedlock,"  and  motions  to  the  chair  from  which  she  has 
risen.    She  hesitates,  but  he  motions  again,  and  she  sits  down. 

"  The  relations  between  us  are  of  an  unfortunate  descrip- 
tion, Lady  Dedlock  ;  but,  as  they  are  not  of  my  making,  I 
will  not  apologize  for  them.  The  position  I  hold  in  reference 
to  Sir  Leicester  is  so  well  known  to  you,  that  I  can  hardly 
imagine  but  that  I  must  long  have  appeared  in  your  eyes  the 
natural  person  to  make  this  discovery." 

"  Sir,"  she  returns,  without  looking  up  from  the  ground,  on 
which  her  eyes  are  now  fixed.  "  I  had  better  have  gone.  It 
would  have  been  far  better  not  to  have  detained  me.  I  have 
no  more  to  say." 


152 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Excuse  me,  Lady  Dedlock,  if  I  add,  a  little  more  to  hear." 
"  I  wish  to  hear  it  at  the  window,  then.     I  can't  breathe 
where  I  am." 

His  jealous  glance  as  she  walks  that  way,  betrays  an 
instant's  misgiving  that  she  may  have  it  in  her  thoughts  to 
leap  over,  and  dashing  against  ledge  and  cornice,  strike  her 
life  out  upon  the  terrace  below.  But,  a  moment's  observation 
of  her  figure  as  she  stands  in  the  window  without  any  sup- 
port, looking  out  at  the  stars  —  not  up  —  gloomily  out  at 
those  stars  which  are  low  in  the  heavens  —  reassures  him. 
By  facing  round  as  she  has  moved,  he  stands  a  little  behind 
her. 

"Lady  Dedlock,  I  have  not  yet  fteen  able  to  come  to  a 
decision  satisfactory  to  myself,  on  the  course  before  me.  I 
am  not  clear  what  to  do,  or  how  to  act  next.  I  must  request 
you,  in  the  mean  time,  to  keep  your  secret  as  you  have  kept 
it  so  long,  and  not  to  wronder  that  I  keep  it  too." 

He  pauses,  but  she  makes  no  reply. 

"Pardon  me,  Lady  Dedlock.    This  is  an  important  subject. 
You  are  honoring  me  with  your  attention  ?  " 
"  I  am." 

"  Thank  you.  I  might  have  known  it,  from  what  I  have 
seen  of  your  strength  of  character.  I  ought  not  to  have  asked 
the  question,  but  I  have  the  habit  of  making  sure  of  my 
ground,  step  by  step,  as  I  go  on.  The  sole  consideration  in 
this  unhappy  case  is  Sir  Leicester." 

"  Then  why,"  she  asks  in  a  low  voice,  and  without  removing 
her  gloomy  look  from  those  distant  stars,  "  do  you  detain  me 
in  his  house  ?  " 

"Because  he  is  the  consideration.  Lady  Dedlock,  I  have 
no  occasion  to  tell  you  that  Sir  Leicester  is  a  very  proud 
man ;  that  his  reliance  upon  you  is  implicit ;  that  the  fall  of 
that  moon  out  of  the  sky,  would  not  amaze  him  more  than 
your  fall  from  your  high  position  as  his  wife." 

She  breathes  quickly  and  heavily,  but  she  stands  as  unflinch- 
ingly as  ever  he  has  seen  her  in  the  midst  of  her  grandest 
company. 

"I  declare  to  you,  Lady  Dedlock,  that  with  anything  short 
of  this  case  that  I  have,  I  would  as  soon  have  hoped  to  root 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


153 


up,  by  means  of  my  own  strength  and  my  own  hands,  the 
oldest  tree  on  this  estate,  as  to  shake  your  hold  upon  Sir 
Leicester,  and  Sir  Leicester's  trust  and  confidence  in  you. 
And  even  now,  with  this  case,  I  hesitate.  Not  that  he  could 
doubt  (that,  even  with  him,  is  impossible),  but  that  nothing 
can  prepare  him  for  the  blow." 

"  Not  my  flight  ?  "  she  returned.    "  Think  of  it  again." 

"  Your  flight,  Lady  Dedlock,  would  spread  the  whole  truth, 
and  a  hundred  times  the  wrhole  truth,  far  and  wide.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  save  the  family  credit  for  a  day.  It  is  not 
to  be  thought  of." 

There  is  a  quiet  decision  in  his  reply,  which  admits  of  no 
remonstrance. 

"  When  I  speak  of  Sir  Leicester  being  the  sole  considera- 
tion, he  and  the  family  credit  are  one.  Sir  Leicester  and  the 
baronetcy,  Sir  Leicester  and  Chesney  Wold,  Sir  Leicester  and 
his  ancestors  and  his  patrimony ; n  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  very 
dry  here ;  "  are,  I  need  not  say  to  you,  Lady  Dedlock, 
inseparable." 

"  Go  on  ! " 

"  Therefore,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  pursuing  his  case  in 
his  jog-trot  style,  "  I  have  much  to  consider.  This  is  to  be 
hushed  up,  if  it  can  be.  How  can  it  be,  if  Sir  Leicester  is 
driven  out  of  his  wits,  or  laid  upon  a  death-bed  ?  If  I 
inflicted  this  shock  upon  him  to-morrow  morning,  how  could 
the  immediate  change  in  him  be  accounted  for  ?  What  could 
have  caused  it  ?  What  could  have  divided  you  ?  Lady 
Dedlock,  the  wall-chalking  and  the  street-crying  would  come 
on  directly ;  and  you  are  to  remember  that  it  would  not  affect 
you  merely  (whom  I  cannot  at  all  consider  in  this  business), 
but  your  husband,  Lady  Dedlock,  your  husband." 

He  gets  plainer  as  he  gets  on,  but  not  an  atom  more 
emphatic  or  animated. 

"  There  is  another  point  of  view,"  he  continues,  "  in  which 
the  case  presents  itself.  Sir  Leicester  is  devoted  to  you  almost 
to  infatuation.  He  might  not  be  able  to  overcome  that  infat- 
uation, even  knowing  what  we  know.  I  am  putting  an 
extreme  case,  but  it  might  be  so.  If  so,  it  were  better  that 
he  knew  nothing.    Better  for  common-sense,  better  for  him, 


154 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


better  for  me.  I  must  take  all  this  into  account,  and  it 
combines  to  render  a  decision  very  difficult." 

She  stands  looking  out  at  the  same  stars,  without  a  word. 
They  are  beginning  to  pale,  and  she  looks  as  if  their  coldness 
froze  her. 

"My  experience  teaches  me,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  who 
has  by  this  time  got  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  is  going  on 
in  his  business  consideration  of  the  matter,  like  a  machine. 
"  My  experience  teaches  me,  Lady  Dedloek,  that  most  of  the 
people  I  know  would  do  far  better  to  leave  marriage  alone. 
It  is  at  the  bottom  of  three-fourths  of  their  troubles.  So  I 
thought  when  Sir  Leicester  married,  and  so  I  always  have 
thought  since.  No  more  about  that.  I  rnust  now  be  guided 
by  circumstances.  In  the  mean  while  I  must  beg  you  to  keep 
your  own  counsel,  and  I  will  keep  mine." 

"  I  am  to  drag  my  present  life  on,  holding  its  pains  at  your 
pleasure,  day  by  day  ?  "  she  asks,  still  looking  at  the  distant 
sky. 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  so,  Lady  Dedloek." 

"  It  is  necessary,  you  think,  that  I  should  be  so  tied  to  the 
stake  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  that  what  I  recommend  is  necessary." 

"  I  am  to  remain  upon  this  gaudy  platform,  on  which  my 
miserable  deception  has  been  so  long  acted,  and  it  is  to  fall 
beneath  me  when  you  give  the  signal  ?  "  she  says  slowly. 

"  Not  without  notice,  Lady  Dedloek.  I  shall  take  no  step 
without  forewarning  you." 

She  asks  all  her  questions  as  if  she  were  repeating  them 
from  memory,  or  calling  them  over  in  her  sleep. 

"  We  are  to  meet  as  usual  ?  " 

"  Precisely  as  usual,  if  you  please." 

"And  I  am  to  hide  my  guilt,  as  I  have  done  so  many 

years  ?  " 

"  As  you  have  done  so  many  years.  I  should  not  have 
made  that  reference  myself,  Lady  Dedloek,  but  I  may  now 
remind  you  that  your  secret  can  be  no  heavier  to  you  than  it 
was,  and  is  no  worse  and  no  better'  than  it  was.  /  know  it 
certainly,  but  I  believe  we  have  never  wholly  trusted  each 
other." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


155 


She  stands  absorbed  in  the  same  frozen  way  for  some  little 
time,  before  asking  :  — 

"  Is  there  anything  more  to  be  said  to-night  ?  " 

"  Why/'  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  returns  methodically,  as  he  softly 
rubs  his  hands,  "  I  should  like  to  be  assured  of  your  acquies- 
cence in  my  arrangements,  Lady  Dedlock." 

"  You  may  be  assured  of  it." 

"Good.  And  I  would  wish  in  conclusion  to  remind  you, 
as  a  business  precaution,  in  case  it  should  be  necessary  to 
recall  the  fact  'in  any  communication  with  Sir  Leicester,  that 
throughout  our  interview  I  have  expressly  stated  my  sole 
consideration  to  be  Sir  Leicester's  feelings  and  honor,  and 
the  family  reputation.  I  should  have  been  happy  to  have 
made  Lady  Dedlock  a  prominent  consideration  too,  if  the 
case  had  admitted  of  it ;  but  unfortunately  it  does  not." 

"  I  can  attest  your  fidelity,  sir." 

Both  before  and  after  saying  it,  she  remains  absorbed ;  but 
at  length  moves,  and  turns,  unshaken  in  her  natural  and 
acquired  presence,  towards  the  door.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  opens 
both  the  doors  exactly  as  he  would  have  done  yesterday,  or  as 
he  would  have  done  ten  years  ago,  and  makes  his  old-fashioned 
bow  as  she  passes  out.  It  is  not  an  ordinary  look  that  he 
receives  from  the  handsome  face  as  it  goes  into  the  darkness, 
and  it  is  not  an  ordinary  movement,  though  a  very  slight  one, 
that  acknowledges  his  courtesy.  But,  as  he  reflects  when  he 
is  left  alone,  the  woman  has  been  putting  no  common  con- 
straint upon  herself. 

He  would  know  it  all  the  better,  if  he  saw  the  woman 
pacing  her  own  rooms  with  her  hair  wildly  thrown  from  her 
Aung-back  face,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  her  figure 
twisted  as  if  by  pain.  He  would  think  so  all  the  more,  if  he 
saw  the  woman  thus  hurrying  up  and  down  for  hours,  without 
fatigue,  without  intermission,  followed  by  the  faithful  step 
upon  the  Ghost's  Walk.  But  he  shuts  out  the  now  chilled 
air,  draws  the  window-curtain,  goes  to  bed,  and  falls  asleep. 
And  truly  when  the  stars  go  out  and  the  wan  day  peeps  into 
the  turret-chamber,  finding  him  at  his  oldest,  he  looks  as  if 
the  digger  and  the  spade  were  both  commissioned,  and  would, 
soon  be  digging. 


156 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


The  same  wan  day  peeps  in  at  Sir  Leicester  pardoning  the 
repentant  country  in  a  majestically  condescending  dream ; 
and  at  the  cousins  entering  on  various  public  employments, 
principally  receipt  of  salary;  and  at  the  chaste  Volumnia, 
bestowing  a  dower  of  fifty  thousand  pounds  upon  a  hideous 
old  General,  with  a  mouth  of  false  teeth  like  a  pianoforte  too 
full  of  keys,  long  the  admiration  of  Bath  and  the  terror  of 
every  other  community.  Also  into  rooms  high  in  the  roof, 
and  into  offices  in  courtyards  and  over  stables,  where  humbler 
ambition  dreams  of  bliss,  in  keeper's  lodges,  and  in  holy 
matrimony  with  Will  or  Sally.  Up  comes  the  bright  sun, 
drawing  everything  up  with  it  —  the  Wills  and  Sallys,  the 
latent  vapor  in  the  earth,  the  drooping  leaves  and  flowers,  the 
birds  and  beasts  and  creeping  things,  the  gardeners  to  sweep 
the  dewy  turf  and  unfold  emerald  velvet  where  the  roller 
passes,  the  smoke  of  the  great  kitchen  fire  wreathing  itself 
straight  and  high  into  the  lightsome  air.  Lastly,  up  comes 
the  flag  over  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  unconscious  head,  cheerfully 
proclaiming  that  Sir  Leicester  and  Lady  Dedlock  are  in  their 
happy  home  and  that  there  is  hospitality  at  the  place  in 
Lincolnshire. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


157 


CHAPTER  XL 

IN  MR.   TULKINGHORN?S  CHAMBERS. 

From  the  verdant  undulations  and  the  spreading  oaks  of 
the  Dedlock  property,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  transfers  himself  to 
the  stale  heat  and  dust  of  London.  His  manner  of  coining 
and  going  between  the  two  places,  is  one  of  his  impenetra- 
bilities. He  walks  into  Chesney  Wold  as  if  it  were  next 
door  to  his  chambers,  and  returns  to  his  chambers  as  if  he 
had  never  been  out  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  neither 
changes  his  dress  before  the  journey,  nor  talks  of  it  after- 
wards. He  melted  out  of  his  turret-room  this  morning,  just 
as  now,  in  the  late  twilight,  he  melts  into  his  own  square. 

Like  a  dingy  London  bird  among  the  birds  at  roost  in  these 
pleasant  fields,  where  the  sheep  are  all  made  into  parchment, 
the  goats  into  wigs,  and  the  pasture  into  chaff,  the  lawyer, 
smoke-dried  and  faded,  dwelling  among  mankind  but  not 
consorting  with  them,  aged  without  experience  of  genial 
youth,  and  so  long  used  to  make  his  cramped  nest  in  holes 
and  corners  of  human  nature  that  he  has  forgotten  its  broader 
and  better  range,  comes  sauntering  home.  In  the  oven  made 
by  the  hot  pavements  and  hot  buildings,  he  has  baked  himself 
dryer  than  usual ;  and  he  has,  in  his  thirsty  mind,  his  mel- 
lowed port  wine  half  a  century  old. 

The  lamplighter  is  skipping  up  and  down  his  ladder  on  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn's  side  of  the  Fields,  when  that  high-priest  of 
noble  mysteries  arrives  at  his  own  dull  courtyard.  He 
ascends  the  doorsteps  and  is  gliding  into  the  dusky  hall, 
when  he  encounters,  on  the  top  step,  a  bowing  and  propitia- 
tory little  man. 

"  Is  that  Snagsby  ?  " 

"  Yes  sir.  I  hope  you  are  well  sir.  I  was  just  giving  you 
up  sir,  and  going  home." 


158 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Ay  ?    What  is  it  ?    What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Well  sir/1'  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  holding  his  hat  at  the  side  of 
his  head,  in  his  deference  towards  his  best  customer.  u  I  was 
wishful  to  say  a  word  to  you  sir." 

"  Can  you  say  it  here  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sir." 

"  Say  it  then."  The  lawyer  turns,  leans  his  arms  on  the 
iron  railing  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  looks  at  the  lamp- 
lighter lighting  the  courtyard. 

"  It  is  relating,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  in  a  mysterious  low 
voice  —  "  it  is  relating  —  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it 
—  to  the  foreigner  sir." 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  eyes  him  with  some  surprise.  "  What 
foreigner  ?  " 

"  The  foreign  female  sir.  French,  if  I  don't  mistake  ?  I 
am  not  acquainted  with  that  language  myself,  but  I  should 
judge  from  her  manners  and  appearance  that  she  was  French ; 
anyways,  certainly  foreign.  Her  that  was  up-stairs  sir,  when 
Mr.  Bucket  and  me  had  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  you  with 
the  sweeping-boy  that  night." 

"  Oh !  yes,  yes.    Mademoiselle  Hortense." 

"  Indeed  sir  ?  "  Mr.  Snagsby  coughs  his  cough  of  submis- 
sion behind  his  hat.  "  I  am  not  acquainted  myself  with  the 
names  of  foreigners  in  general,  but  I  have  no  doubt  it  would 
be  that."  Mr.  Snagsby  appears  to  have  set  out  in  this  reply 
with  some  desperate  design  of  repeating  the  name ;  but  on 
•reflection  coughs  again  to  excuse  himself. 

"  And  what  can  you  have  to  say,  Snagsby,"  demands  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn,  "  about  her  ?  " 

"  Well  sir,"  returns  the  stationer,  shading  his  communica- 
tion with  his  hat,  "  it  falls  a  little  hard  upon  me.  My 
domestic  happiness  is  very  great  —  at  least,  it's  as  great  as 
can  be  expected,  I'm  sure  —  but  my  little  woman  is  rather 
given  to  jealousy.  Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  she  is 
very  much  given  to  jealousy.  And  3^011  see,  a  foreign  female 
of  that  genteel  appearance  coming  into  the  shop,  and  hover- 
ing —  I  should  be  the  last  to  make  use  of  a  strong  expression 
if  I  could  avoid  it,  but  hovering  sir  —  in  the  court  —  you 
kilobit  is  —  now  ain't  it  ?    I  only  put  it  to  yourself  sir." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


159 


Mr.  Snagsby  having  said  this  in  a  very  plaintive  manner, 
throws  in  a  cough  of  general  application  to  fill  up  all  the 
blanks. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Tulkinghorn. 

"  Just  so  sir/'  returns  Mr.  Snagsby ;  "  I  was  sure  you 
would  feel  it  yourself,  and  would  excuse  the  reasonableness  of 
my  feelings  when  coupled  with  the  known  excitableness  of  my 
little  woman.  You  see,  the  foreign  female  —  which  you  men- 
tioned her  name  just  now,  with  quite  a  native  sound  I  am 
sure  —  caught  up  the  word  Snagsby  that  night,  being  uncom- 
mon quick,  and  made  inquiry,  and  got  the  direction  and  come 
at  dinner-time.  Now  Guster;  our  young  woman,  is  timid  and 
has  fits,  and  she,  taking  fright  at  the  foreigner's  looks  — 
which  are  fierce  —  and  at  a  grinding  manner  that  she  has  of 
speaking  —  which  is  calculated  to  alarm  a  weak  mind  —  gave 
way  to  it,  instead  of  bearing  up  against  it,  and  tumbled  down 
the  kitchen  stairs  out  of  one  into  another,  such  fits  as  J  do 
sometimes  think  are  never  gone  into,  or  come  out  of,  in  any 
house  but  ours.  Consequently  there  was  by  good-fortune 
ample  occupation  for  my  little  woman,  and  only  me  to  answer 
the  shop.  When  she  did  say  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  being 
always  denied  to  her  by  his  Employer  (which  I  had  no  doubt 
at  the  time  was  a  foreign  mode  of  viewing  a  clerk),  she  would 
do  herself  the  pleasure  of  continually  calling  at  my  place 
until  she  was  let  in  here.  Since  then  she  has  been,  as  I  began 
by  saying,  hovering  —  Hovering  sir,"  Mr.  Snagsby  repeats 
the  word  with  pathetic  emphasis,  "  in  the  court.  The  effects 
of  which  movement  it  is  impossible  to  calculate.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  might  have  already  given  rise  to  the  painfullest 
mistakes  even  in  the  neighbors'  minds,  not  mentioning  (if 
such  a  thing  was  possible)  my  little  woman.  Whereas,  Good- 
ness knows,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  shaking  his  head,  "  I  never 
had  an  idea  of  a  foreign  female,  except  as  being  formerly 
connected  with  a  bunch  of  brooms  and  a  baby,  or  at  the 
present  time  with  a  tambourine  and  earrings.  I  never  had,  I 
do  assure  you  sir  ! " 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  listened  gravely  to  this  complaint,  and 
inquires,  when  the  stationer  has  finished,  "  And  that's  all,  is 
it,  Snagsby  ?  " 


160 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Why  yes  sir,  that's  all,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  ending  with 
a  cough  that  plainly  adds,  "  and  it's  enough  too  —  for  me." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Mademoiselle  Hortense  may  want  or 
mean,  unless  she  is  mad,"  says  the  lawyer. 

"  Even  if  she  was,  you  know  sir,"  Mr.  Snagsby  pleads,  "  it 
wouldn't  be  a  consolation  to  have  some  weapon  or  another  in 
the  form  of  a  foreign  dagger,  planted  in  the  family." 

"No,"  says  the  other.  "Well,  well!  This  shall  be 
stopped.  I  am  sorry  you  have  been  inconvenienced.  If  she 
comes  again,  send  her  here." 

Mr.  Snagsby,  with  much  bowing  and  short  apologetic 
coughing,  takes  his  leave,  lightened  in  heart.  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn  goes  up-stairs,  saying  to  himself,  "  These  women  were 
created  to  give  trouble,  the  whole  earth  over.  The  Mistress 
not  being  enough  to  deal  with,  here's  the  maid  now !  But  I 
will  be  short  with  this  jade  at  least ! " 

So  saying  he  unlocks  his  door,  gropes  his  way  into  his 
murky  rooms,  lights  his  candles,  and  looks  about  him.  It 
is  too  dark  to  see  much  of  allegory  overhead  there ;  but  that 
importunate  Roman,  who  is  forever  toppling  out  of  the 
clouds  and  pointing,  is  at  his  old  work  pretty  distinctly.  Not 
honoring  him  with  much  attention,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  takes  a 
small  key  from  his  pocket,  unlocks  a  drawer  in  which  there  is 
another  key,  which  unlocks  a  chest  in  which  there  is  another, 
and  so  comes  to  the  cellar-key,  with  which  he  prepares  to 
descend  to  the  regions  of  old  wine.  He  is  going  towards  the 
door  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  when  a  knock  comes. 

"Who's  this? — Ay,  .ay,  mistress,  it's  you,  is  it?  You 
appear  at  a  good  time.  I  have  just  been  hearing  of  you. 
Now  !    What  do  you  want  ?  " 

He  stands  the  candle  on  the  chimney-piece  in  the  clerks' 
hall,  and  taps  his  dry  cheek  with  the  key,  as  he  addresses 
these  words  of  welcome  to  Mademoiselle  Hortense.  That 
feline  personage,  with  her  lips  tightly  shut,  and  her  eyes 
looking  out  at  him  sideways,  softly  closes  the  door  before 
replying. 

"  I  have  had  great  deal  of  trouble  to  find  you,  sir." 

"  Have  you  !  " 

"  I  have  been  here  very  often,  sir.    It  has  always  been  said 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


161 


to  me,  he  is  not  at  home,  he  is  engaged,  he  is  this  and  that, 
he  is  not  for  you." 

"  Quite  right,  and  quite  true." 

"  Not  true.    Lies  ! " 

At  times,  there  is  a  suddenness  in  the  manner  of  Made- 
moiselle Hortense  so  like  a  bodily  spring  upon  the  subject  of 
it,  that  such  subject  involuntarily  starts  and  falls  back.  It  is 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  case  at  present,  though  Mademoiselle 
Hortense,  with  her  eyes  almost  shut  up  (but  still  looking 
out  sideways),  is  only  smiling  contemptuously  and  shaking 
her  head. 

"  Now,  mistress,"  says  the  lawyer,  tapping  the  key  hastily 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  "if  you  have  anything  to  say,  say 
it,  say  it." 

"  Sir,  you  have  not  use  me  well.  You  have  been  mean  and 
shabby." 

"  Mean  and  shabby,  eh  ?  "  returns  the  lawyer,  rubbing  his 
nose  with  the  key. 

"  Yes.  What  is  it  that  I  tell  you  ?  You  know  you  have. 
You  have  attrapped  me  — catched  me  — to  give  you  informa- 
tion ;  you  have  asked  me  to  show  you  the  dress  of  mine  my 
Lady  must  have  wore  that  night,  you  have  prayed  me  to  come 
in  it  here  to  meet  that  boy  —  Say  !  Is  it  not  ?  "  Mademoiselle 
Hortense  makes  another  spring. 

"  You  are  a  vixen,  a  vixen  ! "  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  seems  to 
meditate,  as  he  looks  distrustfully  at  her ;  then  he  replies, 
"  Well,  wench,  well.    I  paid  you." 

"  You  paid  me  !  "  she  repeats,  with  fierce  disdain.  "  Two 
sovereign  !  I  have  not  change  them,  I  ref-use  them,  I  des-pise 
them,  I  throw  them  from  me !  "  Which  she  literally  does, 
taking  them  out  of  her  bosom  as  she  speaks,  and  flinging  them 
with  such  violence  on  the  floor,  that  they  jerk  up  again  into 
the  light  before  they  roll  away  into  corners,  and  slowly  settle 
down  there  after  spinning  vehemently. 

"  Now  ! "  says  Mademoiselle  Hortense,  darkening  her 
large  eyes  again.  "  You  have  paid  me  ?  Eh  my  God,  O 
yes ! " 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  rubs  his  head  with  the  key,  while  she 
entertains  herself  with  a  sarcastic  laugh. 

VOL.  II. 


162 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  You  must  be  rich,  my  fair  friend/'  he  composedly  observes, 
"  to  throw  money  about  in  that  way  !  " 

"  I  am  rich/'  she  returns,  "  I  am  very  rich  in  hate.  I  hate 
my  Lady,  of  all  my  heart.    You  know  that." 

"  Know  it  ?    How  should  I  know  it  ?  " 

"  Because  you  have  known  it  perfectly,  before  you  prayed 
me  to  give  you  that  information.  Because  you  have  known 
perfectly  that  I  was  en-r-r-r-raged !  "  It  appears  impossible 
for  Mademoiselle  to  roll  the  letter  r  sufficiently  in  this  word, 
notwithstanding  that  she  assists  her  energetic  delivery,  by 
clinching  both  her  hands,  and  setting  all  her  teeth. 

"Oh!  I  knew  that,  did  I?"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  ex- 
amining the  wards  of  the  key. 

"  Yes,  without  doubt.  I  am  not  blind.  You  have  made 
sure  of  me  because  you  knew  that.  You  had  reason  !  I 
det-est  her."  Mademoiselle  Hortense  folds  her  arms,  and 
throws  this  last  remark  at  him  over  one  of  her  shoulders. 

"  Having  said  this,  have  you  anything  else  to  say,  Made- 
moiselle ?  " 

"  I  am  not  yet  placed.  Place  me  well.  Find  me  a  good 
condition  !  If  you  cannot,  or  do  not  choose  to  do  that,  employ 
me  to  pursue  her,  to  chase  her,  to  disgrace  and  to  dishonor 
her.  I  will  help  you  well,  and  with  a  good  will.  It  is  what 
you  do.    Do  I  not  know  that  ?  " 

"  You  appear  to  know  a  good  deal,"  Mr.  Tulkinghorn 
retorts. 

"  Do  I  not  ?  Is  it  that  I  am  so  wea,k  as  to  believe,  like  a 
child,  that  I  come  here  in  that  dress  to  receive  that  boy, 
only  to  decide  a  little  bet,  a  wager  ?  —  Eh  my  God,  O  yes  !  " 
In  this  reply,  down  to  the  word  "  wager "  inclusive,  Made- 
moiselle has  been  ironically  polite  and  tender;  then,  has 
suddenly  dashed  into  the  bitterest  and  most  defiant  scorn,  with 
her  black  eyes  in  one  and  the  same  moment  very  nearly  shut, 
and  staringly  wide  open. 

"Now,  let  us  see,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  tapping  his  chin 
with  the  key,  and  looking  imperturbably  at  her,  "how  this 
matter  stands." 

"  Ah  !  Let  us  see,"  Mademoiselle  assents,  with  many  angry 
and  tight  nods  of  her  head. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


163 


"You  come  here  to  make  a  remarkably  modest  demand, 
which  you  have  just  stated,  and  it  not  being  conceded,  you 
will  come  again." 

"And  again,"  says  Mademoiselle,  with  more  tight  and 
angry  nods.  "  And  yet  again.  And  yet  again.  And  many 
times  again.    In  effect,  forever  !  " 

"And  not  only  here,  but  you  will  go  to  Mr.  Snagsby's, 
too,  perhaps  ?  That  visit  not  succeeding  either,  you  will  go 
again  perhaps  ?  " 

"And  again,"  repeats  Mademoiselle,  cataleptic  with  deter- 
mination. "And  yet  again.  And  yet  again.  And  many 
times  again.    In  effect,  forever  !  " 

"  Very  well.  Now  Mademoiselle  Hortense,  let  me  recom- 
mend you  to  take  the  candle  and  pick  up  that  money  of  yours. 
I  think  you  will  find  it  behind  the  clerk's  partition  in  the 
corner  yonder." 

She  merely  throws  a  laugh  over  her  shoulder,  and  stands 
her  ground  with  folded  arms. 

"  You  will  not,  eh  ?  » 

«  No,  I  will  not !  " 

"  So  much  the  poorer  you  ;  so  much  the  richer  I !  Look, 
mistress,  this  is  the  key  of  my  wine-cellar.  It  is  a  large  key, 
but  the  keys  of  prisons  are  larger.  In  this  city  there  are 
houses  of  correction  (where  the  treadmills  are,  for  women) 
the  gates  of  which  are  very  strong  and  heavy,  and  no  doubt 
the  keys  too.  I  am  afraid  a  lady  of  your  spirit  and  activity 
would  find  it  an  inconvenience  to  have  one  of  those  keys 
turned  upon  her  for  any  length  of  time.  What  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  Mademoiselle  replies,  without  any  action,  and 
in  a  clear  obliging  voice,  "that  you  are  a  miserable  wretch." 

"  Probably,"  returns  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  quietly  blowing  his 
nose.  "But  I  don't  ask  what  you  think  of  myself;  I  ask 
what  you  think  of  the  prison." 

"  Nothing.    What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?  " 

"Why  it  matters  this  much,  mistress,"  says  the  lawyer, 
deliberately  putting  away  his  handkerchief,  and  adjusting  his 
frill,  "  the  law  is  so  despotic  here,  that  it  interferes  to  prevent 
any  of  our  good  English  citizens  from  being  troubled,  even 


^64 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


by  a  lady's  visits,  against  his  desire.  And,  on  his  complaining 
that  he  is  so  troubled,  it  takes  hold  of  the  troublesome  lady, 
and  shuts  her  up  in  prison  under  hard  discipline.  Turns  the 
key  upon  her,  mistress."    Illustrating  with  the  cellar-key. 

"Truly?"  returns  Mademoiselle,  in  the  same  pleasant 
voice.  "  That  is  droll !  But  —  my  faith  !  —  still  what  does  it 
matter  to  me  ?  " 

"  My  fair  friend,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  "  make  another 
visit  here,  or  at  Mr.  Snagsby's,  and  you  shall  learn." 

"  In  that  case  you  will  send  Me  to  the  prison,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

It  would  be  contradictory  for  one  in  Mademoiselle's 
state  of  agreeable  jocularity  to  foam  at  the  mouth,  otherwise 
a  tigerish  expansion  thereabouts  might  look  as  if  a  very  little 
more  would  make  her  do  it. 

"  In  a  word,  mistress,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  "  I  am  sorry 
to  be  unpolite,  but  if  you  ever  present  yourself  uninvited  here 
—  or  there  —  again,  I  will  give  you  over  to  the  police. 
Their  gallantry  is  great,  but  they  carry  troublesome  people 
through  the  streets  in  an  ignominious  manner ;  strapped  down 
on  a  board,  my  good  wench." 

"  I  will  prove  you,"  whispers  Mademoiselle,  stretching  out 
her  hand,  "  I  will  try  if  you  dare  to  do  it !  " 

"  And  if,"  pursues  the  lawyer,  without  minding  her,  "  I 
place  you  in  that  good  condition  of  being  locked  up  in  jail,  it 
will  be  some  time  before  you  find  yourself  at  liberty  again." 

"  I  will  prove  you,"  repeats  Mademoiselle  in  her  former 
whisper. 

"  And  now,"  proceeds  the  lawyer,  still  without  minding  her, 
"you  had  better  go.  Think  twice  before  you  come  here 
again." 

"  Think  you,"  she  answers,  "  twice  two  hundred  times  !  " 

"  You  were  dismissed  by  your  lady,  you  know,"  Mr.  Tulk- 
inghorn observes,  following  her  out  upon  the  staircase,  "as 
the  most  implacable  and  unmanageable  of  women.  Now  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  take  warning  by  what  I  say  to  you. 
For  what  I  say,  I  mean  ;  and  what  I  threaten,  I  will  do, 
mistress." 

She  goes  down  without  answering  or  looking  behind  her. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


165 


When  she  is  gone,  he  goes  down  too  ;  and  returning  with  his 
cobweb-covered  bottle,  devotes  himself  to  a  leisurely  enjoy- 
ment of  its  contents  :  now  and  then,  as  he  throws  his  head 
back  in  his  chair,  catching  sight  of  the  pertinacious  Roman 
pointing  from  the  ceiling. 


166 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
Esther's  narrative. 

It  matters  little  now  how  much  I  thought  of  my  living 
mother  who  had  told  me  evermore  to  consider  her  dead.  I 
could  not  venture  to  approach  her,  or  to  communicate  with 
her  in  writing,  for  my  sense  of  the  peril  in  which  her  life  was 
passed  was  only  to  be  equalled  by  my  fears  of  increasing  it. 
Knowing  that  my  mere  existence  as  a  living  creature  was  an 
unforeseen  danger  in  her  way,  I  could  not  always  conquer 
that  terror  of  myself  which  had  seized  me  when  I  first  knew 
the  secret.  At  no  time  did  I  dare  to  utter  her  name.  I  felt 
as  if  I  did  not  even  dare  to  hear  it.  If  the  conversation 
anywhere,  when  I  was  present,  took  that  direction,  as  it  some- 
times naturally  did,  I  tried  not  to  hear —  I  mentally  counted, 
repeated  something  that  I  knew,  or  went  out  of  the  room.  I 
am  conscious  now,  that  I  often  did  these  things  when  there 
can  have  been  no  danger  of  her  being  spoken  of ;  but  I  did 
them  in  the  dread  I  had  of  hearing  anything  that  might  lead 
to  her  betrayal,  and  to  her  betrayal  through  me. 

It  matters  little  now  how  often  I  recalled  the  tones  of  my 
mother's  voice,  wondered  whether  I  should  ever  hear  it  again 
as  I  so  longed  to  do,  and  thought  how  strange  and  desolate  it 
was  that  it  should  be  so  new  to  me.  It  matters  little  that  I 
watched  for  every  public  mention  of  my  mother's  name ;  that 
I  passed  and  repassed  the  door  of  her  house  in  town,  loving 
it,  but  afraid  to  look  at  it ;  that  I  once  sat  in  the  theatre 
when  my  mother  was  there  and  saw  me,  and  when  we  were 
so  wide  asunder,  before  the  great  company  of  all  degrees,  that 
any  link  or  confidence  between  us  seemed  a  dream.  It  is  all, 
all  over.  My  lot  has  been  so  blest  that  I  can  relate  little  of 
myself  which  is  not  a  story  of  goodness  and  generosity  in 
others.    I  may  well  pass  that  little,  and  go  on. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


167 


When  we  were  settled  at  home  again,  Ada  and  I  had  many 
conversations  with  my  Guardian,  of  which  Richard  was  the 
theme.  My  dear  girl  was  deeply  grieved  that  he  should  do 
their  kind  cousin  so  much  wrong ;  but  she  was  so  faithful  to 
Richard,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  blame  him,  even  for  that. 
My  Guardian  was  assured  of  it,  and  never  coupled  his  name 
with  a  word  of  reproof.  "  Rick  is  mistaken,  my  dear/'  he 
would  say  to  her.  "  Well,  well !  we  have  all  been  mistaken 
over  and  over  again.  We  must  trust  to  you  and  time  to  set 
him  right." 

We  knew  afterwards  what  we  suspected  then ;  that  he  did 
not  trust  to  time  until  he  had  often  tried  to  open  Richard's 
eyes.  That  he  had  written  to  him,  gone  to  him,  talked  with 
him,  tried  every  gentle  and  persuasive  art  his  kindness  could 
devise.  Our  poor  devoted  Richard  was  deaf  and  blind  to  all. 
If  he  were  wTrong,  he  would  make  amends  when  the  Chancery 
suit  was  over.  If  he  were  groping  in  the  dark  he  could  not 
do  better  than  do  his  utmost  to  clear  away  those  clouds  in 
which  so  much  was  confused  and  obscured.  Suspicion  and 
misunderstanding  were  the  fault  of  the  suit  ?  Then  let  him 
work  the  suit  out,  and  come  through  it  to  his  right  mind. 
This  was  his  unvarying  reply.  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  had 
obtained  such  possession  of  his  whole  nature,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  place  any  consideration  before  him  which  he  did 
not  —  with  a  distorted  kind  of  reason  —  make  a  new  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  his  doing  what  he  did.  "So  that  it  is 
even  more  mischievous,"  said  my  Guardian  once  to  me,  "  to 
remonstrate  with  the  poor  dear  fellow,  than  to  leave  him 
alone." 

I  took  one  of  these  opportunities  of  mentioning  my  doubts 
of  Mr.  Skimpole  as  a  good  adviser  for  Richard. 

"  Adviser  ?  "  returned  my  Guardian,  laughing.  "  My  dear 
who  would  advise  with  Skimpole  ?  " 

"Encourager  would  perhaps  have  been  a  better  word," 
said  I. 

"  Encourager ! "   returned    my   Guardian   again.     "  Who 
could  be  encouraged  by  Skimpole  ?  " 
"  Not  Richard  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied.     "  Such  an  unworldly,  uncalculating, 


168 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


gossamer  creature,  is  a  relief  to  him,  and  an  amusement. 
But  as  to  advising  or  encouraging,  or  occupying  a  serious 
station  towards  anybody  or  anything,  it  is  simply  not  to  be 
thought  of  in  such  a  child  as  Skimpole." 

"Pray,  cousin  John,"  said  Ada,  who  had  just  joined  us, 
and  now  looked  over  my  shoulder,  "  what  made  him  such  a 
child?" 

"What  made  him  such  a  child?"  inquired  my  Guardian, 
rubbing  his  head,  a  little  at  a  loss. 
"Yes,  cousin  John." 

"  Why,"  he  slowly  replied,  roughening  his  head  more  and 
more,  "he  is  all  sentiment,  and  —  and  susceptibility,  and  — 
and  sensibility  —  and  —  and  imagination.  And  these  qualities 
are  not  regulated  in  him,  somehow.  I  suppose  the  people 
who  admired  him  for  them  in  his  youth,  attached  too  much 
importance  to  them,  and  too  little  to  any  training  that  would 
have  balanced  and  adjusted  them ;  and  so  he  became  what  he 
is.  Hey  ?  "  said  my  Guardian,  stopping  short,  and  looking  at 
us  hopefully.    "  What  do  you  think,  you  two  ?  " 

Ada  glancing  at  me,  said  she  thought  it  was  a  pity  he 
should  be  an  expense  to  Richard. 

"So  it  is,  so  it  is,"  returned  my  Guardian,  hurriedly. 
"  That  must  not  be.  We  must  arrange  that.  I  must  prevent 
it.    That  will  never  do." 

And  I  said  I  thought  it  was  to  be  regretted  that  he  had 
ever  introduced  Richard  to  Mr.  Vholes,  for  a  present  of  five 
pounds. 

"Did  he?"  said  my  Guardian,  with  a  passing  shade  of 
vexation  on  his  face.  "But  there  you  have  the  man.  There 
you  have  the  man !  There  is  nothing  mercenary  in  that,  with 
him.  He  has  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money.  He  introduces 
Rick;  and  then  he  is  good  friends  with  Mr.  Vholes,  and 
borrows  five  pounds  of  him.  He  means  nothing  by  it,  and 
thinks  nothing  of  it.  He  told  you  himself,  I'll  be  bound,  my 
dear?" 

"0  yes!"  said  L 

"Exactly!"  cried  my  Guardian,  quite  triumphant.  "There 
you  have  the  man !  If  he  had  meant  any  harm  by  it,  or  was 
conscious  of  any  harm  in  it,  he  wouldn't  tell  it.    Ho  tells  it 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


169 


as  he  does  it,  in  mere  simplicity.  But  you  shall  see  him  in 
his  own  home,  and  then  you'll  understand  him  better.  We 
must  pay  a  visit  to  Harold  Skimpole,  and  caution  him  on  these 
points.    Lord  bless  you,  my  dears,  an  infant,  an  infant ! " 

In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  we  went  into  London  on  an  early 
day,  and  presented  ourselves  at  Mr.  Skimpole's  door. 

He  lived  in  a  place  called  the  Polygon,  in  Somers  Town, 
where  there  wrere  at  that  time  a  number  of  poor  Spanish 
refugees  walking  about  in  cloaks,  smoking  little  paper  cigars. 
Whether  he  was  a  better  tenant  than  one  might  have  sup- 
posed, in  consequence  of  his  friend  Somebody  always  paying 
his  rent  at  last,  or  whether  his  inaptitude  for  business  ren- 
dered it  particularly  difficult  to  turn  him  out,  I  don't  know ; 
but  he  had  occupied  the  same  house  some  years.  It  was  in  a 
state  of  dilapidation  quite  equal  to  our  expectation.  Two  or 
three  of  the  area  railings  were  gone ;  the  water-butt  was 
broken ;  the  knocker  was  loose ;  the  bell-handle  had  been 
pulled  off  a  long  time,  to  judge  from  the  rusty  state  of  the 
wire ;  and  dirty  footprints  on  the  steps  were  the  only  signs  of 
its  being  inhabited. 

A  slatternly  full-blown  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  bursting  out 
at  the  rents  in  her  gown  and  the  cracks  in  her  shoes,  like  an 
overripe  berry,  answered  our  knock  by  opening  the  door  a 
very  little  way,  and  stopping  up  the  gap  with  her  figure.  As 
she  knew  Mr.  Jarndyce  (indeed  Ada  and  I  both  thought  that 
she  evidently  associated  him  with  the  receipt  of  her  wages),  she 
immediately  relented  and  allowed  us  to  pass  in.  The  lock  of 
the  door  being  in  a  disabled  condition,  she  then  applied  her- 
self to  securing  it  with  the  chain,  which  was  not  in  good 
action  either,  and  said  would  we  go  up-stairs  ? 

We  went  up-stairs  to  the  first  floor,  still  seeing  no  other 
furniture  than  the  dirty  footprints.  Mr.  Jarndyce,  without 
further  ceremony,  entered  a  room  there,  and  we  followed.  It 
was  dingy  enough,  and  not  at  all  clean ;  but  furnished  with  an 
odd  kind  of  shabby  luxury,  with  a  large  footstool,  a  sofa,  and 
plenty  of  cushions,  an  easy-chair,  and  plenty  of  pillows,  a 
piano,  books,  drawing  materials,  music,  newspapers,  and  a  few 
sketches  and  pictures.  A  broken  pane  of  glass  in  one  of  the 
dirty  windows  was  papered  and  wafered  over ;  but  there  was  a 


170 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


little  plate  of  hothouse  nectarines  on  the  table,  and  there  was 
another  of  grapes,  and  another  of  sponge-cakes,  and  there  was 
a  bottle  of  light  wine.  Mr.  Skimpole  himself  reclined  upon 
the  sofa,  in  a  dressing-gown,  drinking  some  fragrant  coffee 
from  an  old  china  cup  —  it  was  then  about  midday  —  and 
looking  at  a  collection  of  wall-flowers  in  the  balcony. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  by  our  appearance, 
but  rose  and  received  us  in  his  usual  airy  manner. 

"  Here  I  am,  you  see  ! "  he  said,  when  we  were  seated :  not 
without  some  little  difficulty,  the  greater  part  of  the  chairs 
being  broken.  "  Here  I  am !  This  is  my  frugal  breakfast. 
Some  men  want  legs  of  beef  and  mutton  for  breakfast ;  I  don't. 
Give  me  my  peach,  my  cup  of  coffee,  and  my  claret ;  I  am 
content.  I  don't  want  them  for  themselves,  but  they  remind 
me  of  the  sun.  There's  nothing  solar  about  legs  of  beef  and 
mutton.    Mere  animal  satisfaction  !  " 

"  This  is  our  friend's  consulting-room  (or  would  be,  if  he 
ever  prescribed),  his  sanctum,  his  studio,"  said  my  Guardian 
to  us. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  turning  his  bright  face  about, 
"  this  is  the  bird's  cage.  This  is  where  the  bird  lives  and 
sings.  They  pluck  his  feathers  now  and  then,  and  clip  his 
wings ;  but  he  sings,  he  sings  ! " 

He  handed  us  the  grapes,  repeating  in  his  radiant  way, 
"he  sings !    Not  an  ambitious  note,  but  still  he  sings." 

"  These  are  very  fine,"  said  my  Guardian.    "  A  present ! " 

"No,"  he  answered.  "No!  Some  amiable  gardener  sells 
them.  His  man  wanted  to  know,  when  he  brought  them  last 
evening,  whether  he  should  wait  for  the  money.  6  Eeally,  my 
friend,'  I  said,  <  I  think  not  —  if  your  time  is  of  any  value  to 
you.'    I  suppose  it  was,  for  he  went  away." 

My  Guardian  looked  at  us  with  a  smile,  as  though  he  asked 
us,  "  Is  it  possible  to  be  worldly  with  this  baby  ?  " 

"  This  is  a  day,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  gayly  taking  a  little 
claret  in  a  tumbler,  "  that  will  ever  be  remembered  here.  We 
shall  call  it  the  Saint  Clare  and  Saint  Summerson  day.  You 
must  see  my  daughters.  I  have  a  blue-eyed  daughter  who  is 
my  Beauty  daughter,  I  have  a  Sentiment  daughter,  and  I  have 
a  Comedy  daughter.  You  must  see  them  all.  They'll  be 
enchanted." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Ill 


He  was  going  to  summon  them,  when  my  Guardian  inter- 
posed, and  asked  him  to  pause  a  moment,  as  he  wished  to  say 
a  word  to  him  first.  "My  dear  Jarndyce,"  he  cheerfully 
replied,  going  back  to  his  sofa,  "as  many  moments  as  you 
please.  Time  is  no  object  here.  We  never  know  what  o'clock 
it  is,  and  we  never  care.  Not  the  way  to  get  on  in  life,  you'll 
tell  me  ?  Certainly.  But  we  don't  get  on  in  life.  We  don't 
pretend  to  do  it," 

My  Guardian  looked  at  us  again,  plainly  saying,  "  You  hear 
him  ?  " 

"  Xow  Harold,"  he  began,  "  the  word  I  have  to  say,  relates 
to  Rick." 

"  The  dearest  friend  I  have  !  "  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  cor- 
dially. "  I  suppose  he  ought  not  to  be  my  dearest  friend,  as 
he  is  not  on  terms  with  you.  But  he  is,  I  can't  help  it ;  he  is 
full  of  youthful  poetry,  and  I  love  him.  If  you  don't  like  it, 
I  can't  help  it.    I  love  him." 

The  engaging  frankness  with  which  he  made  this  declara- 
tion, really  had  a  disinterested  appearance,  and  captivated  my 
Guardian ;  if  not,  for  the  moment,  Ada  too. 

"You  are  welcome  to  love  him  as  much  as  you  like," 
returned  Mr.  Jarndyce,  "but  we  must  save  his  pocket, 
Harold." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mr.  Skimpole.  "  His  pocket  ?  Now,  you  are 
coming  to  what  I  don't  understand."  Taking  a  little  more 
claret,  and  dipping  one  of  the  cakes  in  it,  he  shook  his  head, 
and  smiled  at  Ada  and  me  with  an  ingenuous  foreboding  that 
he  never  could  be  made  to  understand. 

"If  you  go  with  him  here  or  there,"  said  my  Guardian 
plainly,  "you  must  not  let  him  pay  for  both." 

"My  dear  Jarndyce,"  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  his  genial 
face  irradiated  by  the  comicality  of  this  idea,  "what  am  I  to 
do  ?  If  he  takes  me  anywhere,  I  must  go.  And  how  can  2* 
pay  ?  I  never  have  any  money.  If  I  had  any  money,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  Suppose  I  say  to  a  man,  how  much  ? 
Suppose  the  man  says  to  me  seven  and  sixpence  ?  I  know 
nothing  about  seven  and  sixpence.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
pursue  the  subject,  with  any  consideration  for  the  man.  I 
don't  go  about  asking  busy  people  what  seven  and  sixpence  is 


172 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


in  Moorish  —  which  I  don't  understand.  Why  should  I  go 
about  asking  them  what  seven  and  sixpence  is  in  Money  — 
which  I  don't  understand  ?  " 

"  Well/'  said  my  Guardian,  by  no  means  displeased  with 
this  artless  reply,  "if  you  come  to  any  kind  of  journeying 
with  Rick,  you  must  borrow  the  money  of  me  (never  breathing 
the  least  allusion  to  that  circumstance),  and  leave  the  calcula- 
tion to  him." 

"My  dear  Jarndyce,"  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  "I  will  do 
anything  to  give  you  pleasure,  but  it  seems  an  idle  form  —  a 
superstition.  Besides,  I  give  you  my  word,  Miss  Clare  and 
my  dear  Miss  Summerson,  I  thought  Mr.  Carstone  was  im- 
mensely rich.  I  thought  he  had  only  to  make  over  something, 
or  to  sign  a  bond,  or  a  draft  or  a  check,  or  a  bill,  or  to  put 
something  on  a  file  somewhere,  to  bring  down  a  shower  of 
money." 

"  Indeed  it  is  not  so,  sir,"  said  Ada.    "  He  is  poor." 

"  No,  really  ? "  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  his  bright 
smile,  "you  surprise  me." 

"  And  not  being  the  richer  for  trusting  in  a  rotten  reed," 
said  my  Guardian,  laying  his  hand  emphatically  on  the  sleeve 
of  Mr.  Skimpole's  dressing-gown,  "  be  you  very  careful  not  to 
encourage  him  in  that  reliance,  Harold." 

"My  dear  good  friend,"  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  "and  my 
dear  Miss  Summerson,  and  my  dear  Miss  Clare,  how  can  I  do 
that  ?  It's  business,  and  I  don't  know  business.  It  is  he 
who  encourages  me.  He  emerges  from  great  feats  of  business, 
presents  the  brightest  prospects  before  me  as  their  result,  and 
calls  upon  me  to  admire  them.  I  do  admire  them — as  bright 
prospects.  But  I  know  no  more  about  them,  and  I  tell  him 
so." 

The  helpless  kind  of  candor  with  which  he  presented  this 
before  us,  the  light-hearted  manner  in  which  he  was  amused 
by  his  innocence,  the  fantastic  way  in  which  he  took  himself 
under  his  own  protection  and  argued  about  that  curious  person, 
combined  with  the  delightful  ease  of  everything  he  said 
exactly  to  make  out  my  Guardian's  case.  The  more  I  saw  of 
him,  the  more  unlikely  it  seemed  to  me,  when  he  was  present, 
that  he  could  design,  conceal,  or  influence  anything ;  and  yet 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


173 


the  less  likely  that  appeared  when  he  was  not  present,  and 
the  less  agreeable  it  was  to  think  of  his  having  anything  to  do 
with  any  one  for  whom  I  cared. 

Hearing  that  his  examination  (as  he  called  it)  was  now 
over,  Mr.  Skimpole  left  the  room  with  a  radiant  face  to  fetch 
his  daughters  (his  sons  had  run  away  at  various  times), 
leaving  my  Guardian  quite  delighted  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  vindicated  his  childish  character.  He  soon  came 
back,  bringing  with  him  the  three  young  ladies  and  Mrs.  Skim- 
pole, who  had  once  been  a  beauty,  but  was  now  a  delicate 
high-nosed  invalid,  suffering  under  a  complication  of  disorders. 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  "  is  my  Beauty  daughter, 
Arethusa  —  plays  and  sings  odds  and  ends  like  her  father. 
This  is  my  Sentiment  daughter,  Laura  —  plays  a  little  but 
don't  sing.  This  is  my  Comedy  daughter,  Kitty  —  sings  a 
little  but  don't  play.  We  all  draw  a  little,  and  compose  a 
little,  and  none  of  us  have  any  idea  of  time  or  money." 

Mrs.  Skimpole  sighed,  I  thought,  as  if  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  strike  out  this  item  in  the  family  attainments. 
I  also  thought  that  she  rather  impressed  her  sigh  upon  my 
Guardian,  and  that  she  took  every  opportunity  of  throwing  in 
another. 

"  It  is  pleasant,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  turning  his  sprightly 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  "and  it  is  whimsically 
interesting,  to  trace  peculiarities  in  families.  In  this  family 
we  are  all  children,  and  I  am  the  youngest." 

The  daughters,  who  appeared  to  be  very  fond  of  him,  were 
amused  by  this  droll  fact ;  particularly  the  Comedy  daughter. 

"  My  dears,  it  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  "  is  it  not  ? 
So  it  is,  and  so  it  must  be,  because,  like  the  dogs  in  the 
hymn,  6  it  is  our  nature  to.'  Now,  here  is  Miss  Summerson 
with  a  fine  administrative  capacity,  and  a  knowledge  of 
details  perfectly  surprising.  It  will  sound  very  strange  in 
Miss  Summerson's  ears,  I  dare  say,  that  we  know  nothing 
about  chops  in  this  house.  But  we  don't ;  not  the  least.  We 
can't  cook  anything  whatever.  A  needle  and  thread  we  don't 
know  how  to  use.  We  admire  the  people  who  possess  the 
practical  wisdom  we  want ;  but  we  don't  quarrel  with  them. 
Then  why  should  they  quarrel  with  us  ?    Live,  and  let  live, 


174 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


we  say  to  them.  Live  upon  your  practical  wisdom,  and  let  us 
live  upon  you  !  " 

He  laughed,  but,  as  usual,  seemed  quite  candid,  and  really 
to  mean  what  he  said. 

"We  have  sympathy,  my  roses,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole, 
"  sympathy  for  everything.    Have  we  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  papa  !  "  cried  the  three  daughters. 

"  In  fact,  this  is  our  family  department,"  said  Mr.  Skim- 
pole, "  in  this  hurly-burly  of  life.  We  are  capable  of  looking 
on  and  of  being  interested,  and  we  do  look  on,  and  we  are 
interested.  What  more  can  we  do !  Here  is  my  Beauty 
daughter,  married  these  three  years.  Now,  I  dare  say  her 
marrying  another  child,  and  having  two  more,  was  all  wrong 
in  point  of  political  economy ;  but  it  was  very  agreeable. 
We  had  our  little  festivities  on  those  occasions,  and  exchanged 
social  ideas.  She  brought  her  young  husband  home  one  day, 
and  they  and  their  young  fledglings  have  their  nest  up-stairs. 
I  dare  say,  at  some  time  or  other,  Sentiment  and  Comedy  will 
bring  their  husbands  home,  and  have  their  nests  up-stairs  too. 
So  we  get  on,  we  don't  know  how,  but  somehow." 

She  looked  very  young  indeed,  to  be  the  mother  of  two 
children ;  and  I  could  not  help  pitying  both  her  and  them.  It 
was  evident  that  the  three  daughters  had  grown  up  as  they 
could,  and  had  had  just  as  little  haphazard  instruction  as 
qualified  them  to  be  their  father's  playthings  in  his  idlest 
hours.  His  pictorial  tastes  were  consulted,  I  observed,  in 
their  respective  styles  of  wearing  their  hair ;  the  Beauty 
daughter  being  in  the  classic  manner ;  the  Sentiment  daughter 
luxuriant  and  flowing;  and  the  Comedy  daughter  in  the  arch 
style,  with  a  good  deal  of  sprightly  forehead,  and  vivacious 
little  curls  dotted  about  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  They  were 
dressed  to  correspond,  though  in  a  most  untidy  and  negligent 
way. 

Ada  and  I  conversed  with  these  young  ladies,  and  found 
them  wonderfully  like  their  father.  In  the  mean  while  Mr. 
Jarndyce  (who  had  been  rubbing  his  head  to  a  great  extent, 
and  hinting  at  a  change  in  the  wind)  talked  with  Mrs. 
Skimpole  in  a  corner  where  we  could  not  help  hearing  the 
chink  of  money.  Mr.  Skimpole  had  previously  volunteered  to 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


175 


go  home  with  us,  and  had  withdrawn  to  dress  himself  for  the 
purpose. 

"  My  roses/'  he  said,  when  he  came  back,  "  take  care  of 
mamma.  She  is  poorly  to-day.  By  going  home  with  Mr. 
Jarndyce  for  a  day  or  two,  I  shall  hear  the  larks  sing,  and 
preserve  my  amiability.  It  has  been  tried,  you  know,  and 
would  be  tried  again  if  I  remained  at  home." 

"  That  bad  man  !  "  said  the  Comedy  daughter. 

"  At  the  very  time  when  he  knew  papa  was  lying  down  by 
his  wall-flowers,  looking  at  the  blue  sky,"  Laura  complained. 

"  And  when  the  smell  of  hay  was  in  the  air ! "  said 
Arethusa. 

"It  showed  a  want  of  poetry  in  the  man,"  Mr.  Skimpole 
assented ;  but  with  perfect  good-humor.  "  It  was  coarse. 
There  was  an  absence  of  the  finer  touches  of  humanity  in  it  ! 
My  daughters  have  taken  great  offence,"  he  explained  to  us, 
"at  an  honest  man"  — 

"  Not  honest,  papa.  Impossible  ! "  they  all  three  pro- 
tested. 

"At  a  rough  kind  of  fellow  —  a  sort  of  human  hedgehog 
rolled  up,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  "  who  is  a  baker  in  this 
neighborhood,  and  from  whom  wTe  borrowed  a  couple  of 
arm-chairs.  We  wanted  a  couple  of  arm-chairs,  and  we 
hadn't  got  them,  and  therefore  of  course  we  looked  to  a  man 
who  had  got  them,  to  lend  them.  Well !  this  morose  person 
lent  them,  and  we  wore  them  out.  When  they  were  worn 
out,  he  wanted  them  back.  He  had  them  back.  He  was 
contented,  you  will  say.  Not  at  all.  He  objected  to  their 
being  worn.  I  reasoned  with  him,  and  pointed  out  his 
mistake.  I  said,  'Can  you,  at  your  time  of  life,  be  so  head- 
strong, my  friend,  as  to  persist  that  an  arm-chair  is  a  thing 
to  put  upon  a  shelf  and  look  at  ?  That  it  is  an  object  to 
contemplate,  to  survey  from  a  distance,  to  consider  from  a 
point  of  sight  ?  Don't  you  know  that  these  arm-chairs  were 
borrowed  to  be  sat  upon  ? 9  He  was  unreasonable  and 
unpersuadable,  and  used  intemperate  language.  Being  as 
patient  as  I  am  at  this  minute,  I  addressed  another  appeal 
to  him.  I  said,  'Now,  my  good  man,  however  our  business 
capacities  may  vary,  we  are  all  children  of  one  great  mother, 


176 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Nature.  On  this  blooming  summer  morning  here  you  see  me  9 
(I  was  on  the  sofa)  '  with  flowers  before  me,  fruit  upon  the 
table,  the  cloudless  sky  above  me,  the  air  full  of  fragrance, 
contemplating  Nature.  I  entreat  you,  by  our  common  brother- 
hood, not  to  interpose  between  me  and  a  subject  so  sublime, 
the  absurd  figure  of  an  angry  baker  ! '  But  he  did,"  said  Mr. 
Skimpole,  raising  his  laughing  eyebrows  in  playful  astonish- 
ment ;  "  he  did  interpose  that  ridiculous  figure,  and  he  does, 
and  he  will  again.  And  therefore  I  am  very  glad  to  get  out 
of  his  way,  and  to  go  home  with  my  friend  Jarndyce." 

It  seemed  to  escape  his  consideration  that  Mrs.  Skimpole 
and  the  daughters  remained  behind  to  encounter  the  baker; 
but  this  was  so  old  a  story  to  all  of  them  that  it  had  become 
a  matter  of  course.  He  took  leave  of  his  family  with  a 
tenderness  as  airy  and  graceful  as  any  other  aspect  in  which 
he  showed  himself,  and  rode  away  with  us  in  perfect  harmony 
of  mind.  We  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  through  some  open 
doors,  as  we  went  down-stairs,  that  his  own  apartment  was  a 
palace  to  the  rest  of  the  house. 

I  could  have  no  anticipation,  and  I  had  none,  that  some- 
thing very  startling  to  me  at  the  moment,  and  ever  memorable 
to  me  in  what  ensued  from  it,  was  to  happen  before  this  day 
was  out.  Our  guest  was  in  such  spirits  on  the  way  home, 
that  I  could  do  nothing  but  listen  to  him  and  wonder  at 
him ;  nor  was  I  alone  in  this,  for  Ada  yielded  to  the  same 
fascination.  As  to  my  Guardian,  the  wind,  which  had  threat- 
ened to  become  fixed  in  the  east  when  we  left  Somers  Town, 
veered  completely  round,  before  we  were  a  couple  of  miles 
from  it. 

Whether  of  questionable  childishness  or  not,  in  any  other 
matters,  Mr.  Skimpole  had  a  child's  enjoyment  of  change  and 
bright  weather.  In  no  way  wearied  by  his  sallies  on  the 
road,  he  was  in  the  drawing-room  before  any  of  us  ;  and  I 
heard  him  at  the  piano  while  I  was  yet  looking  after  my 
housekeeping,  singing  refrains  of  barcaroles  and  drinking- 
songs,  Italian  and  German,  by  the  score. 

We  were  all  assembled  shortly  before  dinner,  and  he  was 
still  at  the  piano  idly  picking  out  in  his  luxurious  way  little 
strains  of  music,  and  talking  between  whiles  of  finishing  some 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


177 


sketches  of  the  ruined  old  Verulam  wall,  to-morrow,  which 
he  had  begun  a  year  or  two  ago  and  had  got  tired  of ;  when 
a  card  was  brought  in,  and  my  Guardian  read  aloud  in  a 
surprised  voice,  — 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  ! " 

The  visitor  was  in  the  room  while  it  was  yet  turning  round 
with  me,  and  before  I  had  the  power  to  stir.  If  I  had  had 
it,  I  should  have  hurried  away.  I  had  not  even  the  presence 
of  mind,  in  my  giddiness,  to  retire  to  Ada  in  the  window,  or 
to  see  the  window,  or  to  know  where  it  was.  I  heard  my 
name,  and  found  that  my  Guardian  was  presenting  me,  before 
I  could  move  to  a  chair. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  Sir  Leicester." 

"Mr.  Jarndyce,"  said  Sir  Leicester  in  reply,  as  he  bowed 
and  seated  himself,  "  I  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  here  "  — 
"  You  do  me  the  honor,  Sir  Leicester." 

"  Thank  you  —  of  calling  here  on  my  road  from  Lincoln- 
shire, to  express  my  regret  that  any  cause  of  complaint, 
however  strong,  that  I  may  have  against  a  gentleman  who  — 
who  is  known  to  you  and  has  been  your  host,  and  to  whom 
therefore  I  will  make  no  farther  reference,  should  have  pre- 
vented you,  still  more  ladies  under  your  escort  and  charge, 
from  seeing  whatever  little  there  may  be  to  gratify  a  polite 
and  refined  taste,  at  my  house,  Chesney  Wold." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  obliging,  Sir  Leicester,  and  on  behalf 
of  those  ladies  (who  are  present)  and  for  myself,  I  thank  you 
very  much." 

"  It  is  possible,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  that  the  gentleman  to  whom, 
for  the  reasons  I  have  mentioned  I  refrain  from  making 
further  allusion  —  it  is  possible,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  that  that 
gentleman  may  have  done  me  the  honor  so  far  to  misappre- 
hend my  character,  as  to  induce  you  to  believe  that  you  would 
not  have  been  received  by  my  local  establishment  in  Lincoln- 
shire with  that  urbanity,  that  courtesy,  which  its  members 
are  instructed  to  show  to  all  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  present 
themselves  at  that  house.  I  merely  beg  to  observe,  sir,  that 
the  fact  is  the  reverse." 

My  Guardian  delicately  dismissed  this  remark  without 
making  any  verbal  answer. 

VOL.  II. 


178 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  It  has  given  me  pain,  Mr.  Jarndyce,"  Sir  Leicester 
weightily  proceeded.  "  I  assure  you,  sir,  it  has  given  —  Me 
—  pain  —  to  learn  from  the  housekeeper  at  Chesney  Wold, 
that  a  gentleman  who  was  in  your  company  in  that  part  of 
the  county,  and  who  would  appear  to  possess  a  cultivated  taste 
for  the  Fine  Arts,  was  likewise  deterred,  by  some  such  cause, 
from  examining  the  family  pictures  with  that  leisure,  that 
attention,  that  care,  which  he  might  have  desired  to  bestow 
upon  them,  and  which  some  of  them  might  possibly  have 
repaid."  Here  he  produced  a  card,  and  read,  with  much 
gravity  and  a  little  trouble,  through  his  eye-glass,  "  Mr. 
Hirrold,  —  Herald  —  Harold  —  Skampling  —  Skumpling  —  I 
beg  your  pardon,  —  Skimpole." 

"This  is  Mr.  Harold  Skimpole,"  said  my  Guardian,  evi- 
dently surprised. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Sir  Leicester,  "I  am  happy  to  meet 
Mr.  Skimpole,  and  to  have  the  opportunity  of  tendering  my 
personal  regrets.    I  hope,  sir,  that  when  you  again  find  your- 
self in  my  part  of  the  county,  you  will  be  under  no  similar  1 
sense  of  restraint." 

"  You  are  very  obliging,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock.    So  encour- 
aged, I  shall  certainly  give  myself  the  pleasure  and  advantage 
of  another  visit  to  your  beautiful  house.    The  owners  of  such  ; 
places  as  Chesney  Wold,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  his  usual 
happy  and  easy  air,  "are  public  benefactors.    They  are  good  j 
enough  to  maintain  a  number  of  delightful  objects  for  the 
admiration  and  pleasure  of  us  poor  men ;  and  not  to  reap  all  i 
the  admiration  and  pleasure  that  they  yield,  is  to  be  ungrate- 
ful  to  our  benefactors." 

Sir  Leicester  seemed  to  approve  of  this  sentiment  highly. 
"An  artist,  sir?" 

"No,"  returned  Mr.  Skimpole.    "A  perfectly  idle  man. 
A  mere  amateur." 

Sir  Leicester  seemed  to  approve  of  this  even  more.  He 
hoped  he  might  have  the  good-fortune  to  be  at  Chesney  Wold 
when  Mr.  Skimpole  next  came  down  into  Lincolnshire.  Mr. 
Skimpole  professed  himself  much  flattered  and  honored. 

"Mr.  Skimpole  mentioned,"  pursued  Sir  Leicester,  address- 
ing himself  again  to  my  Guardian  ;  "  mentioned  to  the  house- 


4 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  179 

keeper,  who,  as  he  may  have  observed,  is  an  old  and  attached 
retainer  of  the  family  " — 

("  That  is,  when  I  walked  through  the  house  the  other  day, 
on  the  occasion  of  my  going  down  to  visit  Miss  Summerson 
and  Miss  Clare,"  Mr.  Skirapole  airily  explained  to  us.) 

"  That  the  friend  with  whom  he  had  formerly  been  staying 
there,  was  Mr.  Jarndyce."  Sir  Leicester  bowed  to  the  bearer 
of  that  name.  "  And  hence  I  became  aware  of  the  circum- 
stance for  which  I  have  professed  my  regret.  That  this 
should  have  occurred  to  any  gentleman,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  but 
especially  a  gentleman  formerly  known  to  Lady  Dedlock,  and 
indeed  claiming  some  distant  connection  with  her,  and  for 
whom  (as  I  learn  from  my  Lady  herself)  she  entertains  a 
high  respect,  does,  I  assure  you,  give  —  Me  —  pain." 

"Pray  say  no  more  about  it,  Sir  Leicester,"  returned  my 
Guardian.  "I  am  very  sensible,  as  I  am  sure  we  all  are,  of 
your  consideration.  Indeed  the  mistake  was  mine,  and  I 
ought  to  apologize  for  it." 

I  had  not  once  looked  up.  I  had  not  seen  the  visitor,  and 
had  not  even  appeared  to  myself  to  hear  the  conversation. 
It  surprises  me  to  find  that  I  can  recall  it,  for  it  seemed  to 
make  no  impression  on  me  as  it  passed.  I  heard  them  speak- 
ing, but  my  mind  was  so  confused,  and  my  instinctive  avoid- 
ance of  this  gentleman  made  his  presence  so  distressing  to  me, 
that  I  thought  I  understood  nothing,  through  the  rushing  in 
my  head  and  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

"I  mentioned  the  subject  to  Lady  Dedlock,"  said  Sir 
Leicester,  rising,  "and  my  Lady  informed  me  that  she  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  exchanging  a  few  words  with  Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce and  his  wards,  on  the  occasion  of  an  accidental  meeting 
during  their  sojourn  in  the  vicinity.  Permit  me,  Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce, to  repeat  to  yourself,  and  to  these  ladies,  the  assurance 
I  have  already  tendered  to  Mr.  Skimpole.  Circumstances 
undoubtedly  prevent  my  saying  that  it  would  afford  me  any 
gratification  to  hear  that  Mr.  Boythorn  had  favored  my 
house  with  his  presence ;  but  those  circumstances  are  con- 
fined to  that  gentleman  himself,  and  do  not  extend  beyond 
him." 

"You  know  my  old  opinion  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


lightly  appealing  to  us.  "An  amiable  bull,  who  is  deter- 
mined to  make  every  color  scarlet ! " 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  coughed,  as  if  he  could  not  possibly 
hear  another  word  in  reference  to  such  an  individual ;  and 
took  his  leave  with  great  ceremony  and  politeness.  I  got  to 
my  own  room  with  all  possible  speed,  and  remained  there 
until  I  had  recovered  my  self-command.  It  had  been  very 
much  disturbed ;  but  I  was  thankful  to  find,  when  I  went 
down-stairs  again,  that  they  only  rallied  me  for  having  been 
shy  and  mute  before  the  great  Lincolnshire  baronet. 

By  that  time  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  the  period  was 
come  when  I  must  tell  my  Guardian  what  I  knew.  The  pos- 
sibility of  my  being  brought  into  contact  with  my  mother,  of 
my  being  taken  to  her  house,  —  even  of  Mr.  Skimpole's,  how- 
ever distantly  associated  with  me,  receiving  kindnesses  and 
obligations  from  her  husband,  —  was  so  painful,  that  I  felt  I 
could  no  longer  guide  myself  without  his  assistance. 

When  we  had  retired  for  the  night,  and  Ada  and  I  had  had 
our  usual  talk  in  our  pretty  room,  I  went  out  at  my  door 
again,  and  sought  my  Guardian  among  his  books.  I  knew 
he  always  read  at  that  hour ;  and  as  I  drew  near,  I  saw  the 
light  shining  out  into  the  passage  from  his  reading-lamp. 

"  May  I  come  in,  Guardian  ?  " 

"Surely,  little  woman.    What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing  is  the  matter.  I  thought  I  would  like  to  take 
this  quiet  time  of  saying  a  word  to  you  about  myself." 

He  put  a  chair  for  me,  shut  his  book,  and  put  it  by,  and 
turned  his  kind  attentive  face  towards  me.  I  could  not  help 
observing  that  it  wore  that  curious  expression  I  had  observed 
in  it  once  before  —  on  that  night  when  he  had  said  that  he 
was  in  no  trouble  which  I  could  readily  understand. 

"What  concerns  you,  my  dear  Esther,"  said  he,  "concerns 
us  all.  You  cannot  be  more  ready  to  speak  than  I  am  to 
hear." 

"I  know  that,  Guardian.  But  I  have  such  need  of  your 
advice  and  support.  O !  you  don't  know  how  much  need  I 
have  to-night." 

He  looked  unprepared  for  my  being  so  earnest,  and  even  a 
little  alarmed. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


181 


"  Or  how  anxious  I  have  been  to  speak  to  you,"  said  I, 
"ever  since  the  visitor  was  here  to-day." 

"  The  visitor,  my  dear !    Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  ?  99 
"Yes." 

He  folded  his  arms,  and  sat  looking  at  me  with  an  air  of 
the  profoundest  astonishment,  awaiting  what  I  should  say 
next.    I  did  not  know  how  to  prepare  him. 

"Why,  Esther,"  said  he,  breaking  into  a  smile,  "our 
visitor  and  you  are  the  two  last  persons  on  earth  I  should 
have  thought  of  connecting  together  ! 99 

"0  yes,  Guardian,  I  know  it.  And  I  too,  but  a  little 
while  ago." 

The  smile  passed  from  his  face,  and  he  became  graver  than 
before.  He  crossed  to  the  door  to  see  that  it  was  shut  (but 
I  had  seen  to  that),  and  resumed  his  seat  before  me. 

"Guardian,"  said  I,  "do  you  remember,  when  we  were 
overtaken  by  the  thunder-storm,  Lady  Dedlock's  speaking  to 
you  of  her  sister  ?  " 

"  Of  course.    Of  course  I  do." 

"  And  reminding  you  that  she  and  her  sister  had  differed ; 
had  c  gone  their  several  ways  9  ?  99 
"Of  course." 

"  Why  did  they  separate,  Guardian  ? 99 

His  face  quite  altered  as  he  looked  at  me.  "My  child, 
what  questions  are  these  !  I  never  knew.  No  one  but  them- 
selves ever  did  know,  I  believe.  Who  could  tell  what  the 
secrets  of  those  two  handsome  and  proud  women  were  !  You 
have  seen  Lady  Dedlock.  If  you  had  ever  seen  her  sister,  you 
would  know  her  to  have  been  as  resolute  and  haughty  as  she." 

"  0  Guardian,  I  have  seen  her  many  and  many  a  time  ! 99 

"  Seen  her  ?  99 

He  paused  a  little,  biting  his  lip.  "  Then,  Esther,  when 
you  spoke  to  me  long  ago  of  Boythorn,  and  when  I  told  you 
that  he  was  all  but  married  once,  and  that  the  lady  did  not 
die,  but  died  to  him,  and  that  that  time  had  had  its  influence 
on  his  later  life  —  did  you  know  it  all,  and  know  who  the 
lady  was  ?  " 

"No,  Guardian,"  I  returned,  fearful  of  the  light  that  dimly 
broke  upon  me.    "Nor  do  I  know  yet." 


182 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Lady  Dedlock's  sister." 

"  And  why,"  I  could  scarcely  ask  him,  "  why,  Guardian, 
pray  tell  me  why  were  they  parted  ?  " 

"It  was  her  act,  and  she  kept  its  motives  in  her  inflexible 
heart.  He  afterwards  did  conjecture  (but  it  was  mere  con- 
jecture), that  some  injury  which  her  haughty  spirit  had 
received  in  her  cause  of  quarrel  with  her  sister,  had  wounded 
her  beyond  all  reason  ;  but  she  wrote  him  that  from  the  date 
of  that  letter  she  died  to  him  —  as  in  literal  truth  she  did 
—  and  that  the  resolution  was  exacted  from  her  by  her  knowl- 
edge of  his  proud  temper  and  his  strained  sense  of  honor, 
which  were  both  her  nature  too.  In  consideration  for  those 
master  points  in  him,  and  even  in  consideration  for  them  in 
herself,  she  made  the  sacrifice,  she  said,  and  would  live  in  it 
and  die  in  it.  She  did  both,  I  fear ;  certainly  he  never  saw 
her,  never  heard  of  her  from  that  hour.    Nor  did  any  one." 

"  0  Guardian,  what  have  I  done  !  "  I  cried,  giving  way  to 
my  grief  5  "  what  sorrow  have  I  innocently  caused !  " 

"  You  caused,  Esther  ?  " 

"Yes,   Guardian.     Innocently,  but   most   surely.  That 

secluded  sister  is  my  first  remembrance." 
"  No,  no  !  "  he  cried,  starting. 

"  Yes,  Guardian,  yes  !    And  her  sister  is  my  mother ! " 

I  would  have  told  him  all  my  mother's  letter,  but  he  would 
not  hear  it  then.  He  spoke  so  tenderly  and  wisely  to  me, 
and  he  put  so  plainly  before  me  all  I  had  myself  imperfectly 
thought  and  hoped  in  my  better  state  of  mind,  that,  pene- 
trated as  I  had  been  with  fervent  gratitude  towards  him 
through  so  many  years,  I  believed  I  had  never  loved  him  so 
dearly,  never  thanked  him  in  my  heart  so  fully,  as  I  did  that 
night.  And  when  he  had  taken  me  to  my  room  and  kissed 
me  at  the  door,  and  when  at  last  I  lay  down  to  sleep,  my 
thought  was  how  could  I  ever  be  busy  enough,  how  could  I 
ever  be  good  enough,  how  in  my  little  way  could  I  ever  hope 
to  be  forgetful  enough  of  myself,  devoted  enough  to  him, 
and  useful  enough  to  others,  to  ^how  him  how  I  blessed  and 
honored  him. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


185 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  LETTER  AND  THE  ANSWER. 

My  Guardian  called  me  into  his  room  next  morning,  and 
then  I  told  him  what  had  been  left  untold  on  the  previous 
night.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  he  said,  but  to  keep  the 
secret,  and  to  avoid  another  such  encounter  as  that  of  yester- 
day. He  understood  my  feeling,  and  entirely  shared  it.  He 
charged  himself  even  with  restraining  Mr.  Skimpole  from 
improving  his  opportunity.  One  person  whom  he  need  not 
name  to  me,  it  was  not  now  possible  for  him  to  advise  or 
help.  He  wished  it  were ;  but  no  such  thing  could  be.  If 
her  mistrust  of  the  lawyer  whom  she  had  mentioned  were 
well  founded,  which  he  scarcely  doubted,  he  dreaded  discovery. 
He  knew  something  of  him,  both  by  sight  and'by  reputation, 
and  it  was  certain  that  he  was  a  dangerous  man.  Whatever 
happened,  he  repeatedly  impressed  upon  me  with  anxious 
affection  and  kindness,  I  was  as  innocent  of,  as  himself;  and 
as  unable  to  influence. 

"Nor  do  I  understand,"  said  he,  "that  any  doubts  tend 
towards  you,  my  dear.  Much  suspicion  may  exist  without 
that  connection." 

"  With  the  lawyer,"  I  returned.  "  But  two  other  persons 
have  come  into  my  mind  since  I  have  been  anxious."  Then 
I  told  him  all  about  Mr.  Guppy,  who  I  feared  might  have 
had  his  vague  surmises  when  I  little  understood  his  meaning, 
but  in  whose  silence  after  our  last  interview  I  expressed 
perfect  confidence. 

"  Well,"  said  my  Guardian.  "  Then  we  may  dismiss  him 
for  the  present.    Who  is  the  other  ?  " 

I  called  to  his  recollection  the  French  maid,  and  the  eager 
offer  of  herself  she  had  made  to  me. 

"  Ha  ! "  he  returned  thoughtfully,  "  that  is  a  more  alarming 


154 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


person  than  the  clerk.  But  after  all,  my  dear,  it  was  but 
seeking  for  a  new  service.  She  had  seen  you  and  Ada  a  little 
while  before,  and  it  was  natural  that  you  should  come  into 
her  head.  She  merely  proposed  herself  for  your  maid,  you 
know.  She  did  nothing  more." 
"  Her  manner  was  strange/'  said  I. 

"Yes,  and  her  manner  was  strange  when  she  took  her 
shoes  off,  and  showed  that  cool  relish  for  a  walk  that  might 
have  ended  in  her  death-bed,"  said  my  Guardian.  "  It  would 
be  useless  self-distress  and  torment  to  reckon  up  such  chances 
and  possibilities.  There  are  very  few  harmless  circumstances 
that  would  not  seem  full  of  perilous  meaning,  so  considered. 
Be  hopeful,  little  woman.  You  can  be  nothing  better  than 
yourself;  be  that,  through  this  knowledge,  as  you  were 
before  you  had  it.  It  is  the  best  you  can  do,  for  everybody's 
sake.    I  sharing  the  secret  with  you  "  — 

"  And  lightening  it,  Guardian,  so  much,"  said  I. 

«  —  Will  be  attentive  to  what  passes  in  that  family,  so  far 
as  I  can  observe  it  from  my  distance.  And  if  the  time  should 
come  when  I  can  stretch  out  a  hand  to  render  the  least  service 
to  one  whom  it  is  better  not  to  name  even  here,  I  will  not 
fail  to  do  it  for  her  dear  daughter's  sake." 

I  thanked  him  with  my  whole  heart.  What  could  I  ever 
do  but  thank  him  !  I  was  going  out  at  the  door,  when  he 
asked  me  to  stay  a  moment.  Quickly  turning  round,  I  saw 
that  same  expression  on  his  face  again ;  and  all  at  once,  I 
don't  know  how,  it  flashed  upon  me  as  a  new  and  far  off 
possibility  that  I  understood  it. 

"  My  dear  Esther,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  I  have  long  had 
something  in  my  thoughts  that  I  have  wished  to  say  to  you." 

"Indeed?" 

"  I  have  had  some  difficulty  in  approaching  it,  and  I  still 
have.  I  should  wish  it  to  be  so  deliberately  said,  and  so  de- 
liberately considered.    Would  you  object  to  my  writing  it  ?  " 

"Dear  Guardian,  how  could  I  object  to  your  writing  any- 
thing for  me  to  read  ?  " 

"  Then  see,  my  love,"  said  he,  with  his  cheery  smile ;  "  am 
I  at  this  moment  quite  as  plain  and  easy  —  do  I  seem  as 
open,  as  honest  and  old-fashioned,  as  I  am  at  any  time  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


185 


I  answered,  in  all  earnestness,  "  Quite."  With  the  strictest 
truth,  for  his  momentary  hesitation  was  gone  (it  had  not 
lasted  a  minute),  and  his  fine,  sensible,  cordial,  sterling 
manner  was  restored. 

"  Do  1  look  as  if  I  suppressed  anything,  meant  anything 
but  what  I  said,  had  any  reservation  at  all,  no  matter  what  ?  " 
said  he,  with  his  bright  clear  eyes  on  mine. 

I  answered,  most  assuredly  he  did  not. 

"  Can  you  fully  trust  me,  and  thoroughly  rely  on  what  I 
profess,  Esther  ?  " 

"  Most  thoroughly/7  said  I,  with  my  whole  heart. 

"My  dear  girl,"  returned  my  Guardian,  "  give  me  your 
hand." 

He  took  it  in  his,  holding  me  lightly  with  his  arm,  and, 
looking  down  into  my  face  with  the  same  genuine  freshness 
and  faithfulness  of  manner  —  the  old  protecting  manner  which 
had  made  that  house  my  home  in  a  moment  —  said,  "You 
have  wrought  changes  in  me,  little  woman,  since  the  winter 
day  in  the  stage-coach.  First  and  last  you  have  done  me  a 
world  of  good,  since  that  time." 

"  Ah,  Guardian,  what  have  you  done  for  me  since  that  time  ! " 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  that  is  not  to  be  remembered  now." 

"  It  never  can  be  forgotten." 

"  Yes,  Esther,"  said  he,  with  a  gentle  seriousness,  "it  is 
to  be  forgotten  now ;  to  be  forgotten  for  a  while.  You  are 
only  to  remember  now,  that  nothing  can  change  me  as  you 
know  me.    Can  you  feel  quite  assured  of  that,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  can,  and  I  do,"  I  said. 

"That's  much,"  he  answered.  '  "That's  everything.  But 
I  must  not  take  that,  at  a  word.  I  will  not  write  this  some- 
thing in  my  thoughts,  until  you  have  quite  resolved  within 
yourself  that  nothing  can  change  me  as  you  know  me.  If 
you  doubt  that  in  the  least  degree  I  will  never  write  it.  If 
you  are  sure  of  that,  on  good  consideration,  send  Charley  to 
me  this  night  week  —  'for  the  letter.'  But  if  you  are.  not 
quite  certain,  never  send.  Mind,  I  trust  to  your  truth,  in  this 
thing  as  in  everything.  If  you  are  not  quite  certain  on  that 
one  point,  never  send !  " 

"  Guardian,"  said  I,  "  I  am  already  certain.    I  can  no  more 


186 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


be  changed  in  that  conviction,  than  you  can  be  changed 
towards  me.    I  shall  send  Charley  for  the  letter." 

He  shook  my  hand  and  said  no  more.  Nor  was  any  more 
said  in  reference  to  this  conversation,  either  by  him  or  me, 
through  the  whole  week.  When  the  appointed  night  came, 
I  said  to  Charley  as  soon  as  I  was  alone,  "  Go  and  knock  at 
Mr.  Jarndyce's  door,  Charley,  and  say  you  have  come  from 
me  —  'for  the  letter.'  "  Charley  went  up  the  stairs,  and  down 
the  stairs,  and  along  the  passages  —  the  zigzag  way  about 
the  old-fashioned  house  seemed  very  long  in  my  listening  ears 
that  night  —  and  so  came  back,  along  the  passages,  and  down 
the  stairs,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  brought  the  letter.  "  Lay 
it  on  the  table,  Charley,"  said  I.  So  Charley  laid  it  on  the 
table  and  went  to  bed,  and  I  sat  looking  at  it  without  taking 
it  up,  thinking  of  many  things. 

I  began  with  my  overshadowed  childhood,  and  passed 
through  those  timid  days  to  the  heavy  time  when  my  aunt 
lay  dead,  with  her  resolute  face  so  cold  and  set ;  and  when  I 
was  more  solitary  with  Mrs.  Eachael,  than  if  I  had  had  no 
one  in  the  world  to  speak  to  or  to  look  at.  I  passed  to  the 
altered  days  when  I  was  so  blessed  as  to  find  friends  in  all 
around  me,  and  to  be  beloved.  I  came  to  the  time  when  I 
first  saw  my  dear  girl,  and  was  received  into  that  sisterly 
affection  which  was  the  grace  and  beauty  of  my  life.  I 
recalled  the  first  bright  gleam  of  welcome  which  had  shone 
out  of  those  very  windows  upon  our  expectant  faces  on  that 
cold  bright  night  and  which  had  never  paled.  I  lived  my 
happy  life  there  over  again,  I  went  through  my  illness  and 
recovery,  I  thought  of  myself  so  altered  and  of  those  around 
me  so  unchanged,  and  all  this  happiness  shone  like  a  light, 
from  one  central  figure,  represented  before  me  by  the  letter 
on  the  table. 

I  opened  it  and  read  it.  It  was  so  impressive  in  its  love 
for  me,  and  in  the  unselfish  caution  it  gave  me,  and  the  con- 
sideration it  showed  for  me  in  every  word,  that  my  eyes  were 
too  often  blinded  to  read  much  at  a  time.  But  I  read  it 
through  three  times,  before  I  laid  it  down.  I  had  thought 
beforehand  that  I  knew  its  purport,  and  I  did.  It  asked  me, 
would  I  be  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


187 


It  was  not  a  love-letter  though,  it  expressed  so  much  love, 
but  was  written  just  as  he  would  at  any  time  have  spoken  to 
me.  I  saw  his  face,  and  heard  his  voice,  and  felt  the  influence 
of  his  kind  protecting  manner,  in  every  line.  It  addressed 
me  as  if  our  places  were  reversed :  as  if  all  the  good  deeds 
had  been  mine,  and  all  the  feelings  they  had  awakened,  his.  It 
dwelt  on  my  being  young,  and  he  past  the  prime  of  life ;  on 
his  having  attained  a  ripe  age,  while  I  was  a  child ;  on  his 
writing  to  me  with  a  silvered  head,  and  knowing  all  this  so 
well  as  to  set  it  in  full  before  me  for  mature  deliberation.  It 
told  me  that  I  would  gain  nothing  by  such  a  marriage,  and 
lose  nothing  by  rejecting  it ;  for  no  new  relation  could  enhance 
the  tenderness  in  which  he  held  me,  and  whatever  my  decision 
was,  he  was  certain  it  would  be  right.  But  he.  had  considered 
this  step  anew,  since  our  late  confidence,  and  had  decided  on 
taking  it;  if  it  only  served  to  show  me,  through  one' poor 
instance,  that  the  whole  world  would  readily  unite  to  falsify 
the  stern  prediction  of  my  childhood.  I  was  the  last  to  know 
what  happiness  I  could  bestow  upon  him,  but  of  that  he  said 
no  more  ;  for  I  was  always  to  remember  that  I  owed  him 
nothing,  and  that  he  was  my  debtor,  and  for  very  much.  He 
had  often  thought  of  our  future  ;  and  foreseeing  that  the 
time  must  come,  and  fearing  that  it  might  come  soon,  when 
Ada  (now  very  nearly  of  age)  would  leave  us,  and  when  our 
present  mode  of  life  must  be  broken  up,  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  reflect  on  this  proposal.  Thus  he  made  it.  If  I 
felt  that  I  could  ever  give  him  the  best  right  he  could  have 
to  be  my  protector,  and  if  I  felt  that  I  could  happily  and 
justly  become  the  dear  companion  of  his  remaining  life, 
superior  to  all  lighter  chances  and  changes  than  Death,  even 
then  he  could  not  have  me  bind  myself  irrevocably,  while 
this  letter  was  yet  so  new  to  me ;  but,  even  then,  I  must  have 
ample  time  for  reconsideration.  In  that  case,  or  in  the  oppo- 
site case,  let  him  be  unchanged  in  his  old  relation,  in  his  old 
manner,  in  the  old  name  by  which  I  called  him.  And  as  to 
his  bright  Dame  Durden  and  little  housekeeper,  she  would 
ever  be  the  same,  he  knew. 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  letter ;  written  throughout 
with  a  justice  and  a  dignity,  as  if  he  were  indeed  my  respon- 


188 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


sible  guardian,  impartially  representing  the  proposal  of  a 
friend  against  whom  in  his  integrity  he  stated  the  full  case. 

But  he  did  not  hint  to  me,  that  when  I  had  been  better 
looking,  he  had  had  this  same  proceeding  in  his  thoughts,  and 
had  refrained  from  it.  That  when  my  old  face  was  gone 
from  me,  and  I  had  no  attractions,  he  could  love  me  just  as 
well  as  in  my  fairer  days.  That  the  discovery  of  my  birth 
gave  him  no  shock.  That  his  generosity  rose  above  my  dis- 
figurement, and  my  inheritance  of  shame.  That  the  more  I 
stood  in  need  of  such  fidelity,  the  more  firmly  I  might  trust  in 
him  to  the  last. 

But  /  knew  it,  I  knew  it  well  now.  It  came  upon  me  as 
the  close  of  the  benignant  history  I  had  been  pursuing,  and  I 
felt  that  I  had  but  one  thing  to  do.  To  devote  my  life  to  his 
happiness  was  to  thank  him  poorly,  and  what  had  I  wished 
for  the  other  night  but  some  new  means  of  thanking  him  ? 

Still  I  cried  very  much ;  not  only  in  the  fulness  of  my 
heart  after  reading  the  letter,  not  only  in  the  strangeness  of 
the  prospect  —  for  it  was  strange  though  I  had  expected  the 
contents  —  but  as  if  something  for  which  there  was  no  name 
or  distinct  idea  were  indefinitely  lost  to  me.  I  was  very 
happy,  very  thankful,  very  hopeful ;  but  I  cried  very  much. 

By  and  by  I  went  to  my  old  glass.  My  eyes  wrere  red  and 
swollen,  and  I  said,  "  0  Esther,  Esther,  can  that  be  you  !  n 
I  am  afraid  the  face  in  the  glass  was  going  to  cry  again  at 
this  reproach,  but  I  held  up  my  finger  at  it,  and  it  stopped. 

"  That  is  more  like  the  composed  look  you  comforted  me 
with,  my  dear,  when  you  showed  me  such  a  change  ! "  said  I, 
beginning  to  let  down  my  hair.  "  When  you  are  mistress  of 
Bleak  House,  you  are  to  be  as  cheerful  as  a  bird.  In  fact, 
you  are  always  to  be  cheerful ;  so  let  us  begin  for  once  and 
for  all." 

I  went  on  with  my  hair  now,  quite  comfortably.  I  sobbed 
a  little  still,  but  that  was  because  I  had  been  crying ;  not 
because  I  was  crying  then. 

"  And  so,  Esther,  my  dear,  you  are  happy  for  life.  Happy 
with  your  best  friends,  happy  in  your  old  home,  happy  in  the 
power  of  doing  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  happy  in  the  unde- 
served love  of  the  best  of  men." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


189 


I  thought,  all  at  once,  if  my  Guardian  had  married  some 
one  else,  how  should  I  have  felt,  and  what  should  I  have  done  ! 
That  would  have  been  a  change  indeed.  It  presented  my  life 
in  such  a  new  and  blank  form,  that  I  rang  my  housekeeping 
keys  and  gave  them  a  kiss  before  I  laid  them  down  in  their 
basket  again. 

Then  I  went  on  to  think,  as  I  dressed  my  hair  before  the 
glass,  how  often  had  I  considered  within  myself  that  the  deep 
traces  of  my  illness,  and  the  circumstances  of  my  birth,  were 
only  new  reasons  why  I  should  be  busy,  busy,  busy  —  useful, 
amiable,  serviceable,  in  all  honest,  unpretending  ways.  This 
was  a  good  time,  to  be  sure,  to  sit  down  morbidly  and  cry ! 
As  to  its  seeming  at  all  strange  to  me  at  first  (if  that  were  any 
excuse  for  crying,  which  it  was  not)  that  I  was  one  day  to  be 
the  mistress  of  Bleak  House,  why  should  it  seem  strange  ? 
Other  people  had  thought  of  such  things,  if  I  had  not.  "  Don't 
you  remember,  my  plain  dear/'  I  asked  myself,  looking  at  the 
glass,  "what  Mrs.  Woodcourt  said  before  those  scars  were 
there,  about  your  marrying  "  — 

Perhaps  the  name  brought  them  to  my  remembrance.  The 
dried  remains  of  the  flowers.  It  would  be  better  not  to  keep 
them  now.  They  had  only  been  preserved  in  memory  of 
something  wholly  past  and  gone,  but  it  would  be  better  not 
to  keep  them  now. 

They  were  in  a  book,  and  it  happened  to  be  in  the  next 
room  —  our  sitting-room,  dividing  Ada's  chamber  from  mine. 
I  took  a  candle,  and  went  softly  in  to  fetch  it  from  its  shelf. 
After  I  had  it  in  my  hand,  I  saw  my  beautiful  darling  through 
the  open  door,  lying  asleep,  and  I  stole  in  to  kiss  her. 

It  was  weak  in  me,  I  know,  and  I  could  have  no  reason  for 
crying ;  but  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  her  dear  face,  and  another, 
and  another.  Weaker  than  that,  I  took  the  withered  flowers 
out,  and  put  them  for  a  moment  to  her  lips.  I  thought  about 
her  love  for  Richard ;  though,  indeed,  the  flowers  had  nothing 
to  do  with  that.  Then  I  took  them  into  my  own  room,  and 
burned  them  at  the  candle,  and  they  were  dust  in  an  instant. 

On  entering  the  breakfast-room  next  morning,  I  found  my 
Guardian  just  as  usual;  quite  as  frank,  as  open,  and  free. 


190 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


There  being  not  the  least  constraint  in  his  manner,  there  was 
none  (or  I  think  there  was  none)  in  mine.  I  was  with  him 
several  times  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  in  and  out,  when 
there  was  no  one  there ;  and  I  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  he 
might  speak  to  me  about  the  letter;  but  he  did  not  say  a 
word. 

So,  on  the  next  morning,  and  the  next,  and  for  at  least  a 
week ;  over  which  time  Mr.  Skimpole  prolonged  his  stay.  I 
expected,  every  day,  that  my  Guardian  might  speak  to  me 
about  the  letter ;  but  he  never  did. 

I  thought  then,  growing  uneasy,  that  I  ought  to  write  an 
answer.  I  tried  over  and  over  again  in  my  own  room  at 
night,  but  I  could  not  write  an  answer  that  at  all  began  like 
a  good  answer;  so  I  thought  each  night  I  would  wait  one 
more  day.  And  I  waited  seven  more  days,  and  he  never  said 
a  word. 

At  last  Mr.  Skimpole  having  departed,  we  three  were  one 
afternoon  going  out  for  a  ride ;  and  'I  being  dressed  before 
Ada,  and  going  down,  came  upon  my  Guardian,  with  his  back 
towards  me,  standing  at  the  drawing-room  window  looking 
out. 

He  turned  on  my  coming  in,  and  said,  smiling,  "Ay,  it's 
you,  little  woman,  is  it  ?  "  and  looked  out  again. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  him  now.  In  short,  I 
had  come  down  on  purpose.  "  Guardian,"  I  said,  rather  hesi- 
tating and  trembling,  "  when  would  you  like  to  have  the  answer 
to  the  letter  Charley  came  for  ?  " 

"  When  it's  ready,  my  dear,"  he  replied. 

"  I  think  it  is  ready,"  said  I. 

"  Is  Charley  to  bring  it  ?  "  he  asked  pleasantly. 

"  No.    I  have  brought  it  myself,  Guardian,"  I  returned. 

I  put  my  two  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him ;  and  he 
said  was  this  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House ;  and  I  said  yes : 
and  it  made  no  difference  presently,  and  we  all  went  out 
together,  and  I  said  nothing  to  my  precious  pet  about  it. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


191 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

m  TRUST. 

One  morning  when  I  had  done  jingling  about  with  my 
baskets  of  keys,  as  my  beauty  and  I  were  walking  round  and 
round  the  garden  I  happened  to  turn  my  eyes  towards  the 
house,  and  saw  a  long  thin  shadow  going  in  which  looked  like 
Mr.  Vholes.  Ada  had  been  telling  me  only  that  morning,  of 
her  hopes  that  Richard  might  exhaust  his  ardor  in  the  Chan- 
cery suit  by  being  so  very  earnest  in  it ;  and  therefore,  not  to 
damp  my  dear  girl's  spirits,  I  said  nothing  about  Mr.  Vholes's 
shadow. 

Presently  came  Charley,  lightly  winding  among  the  bushes, 
and  tripping  along  the  paths,  as  rosy  and  pretty  as  one  of 
Flora's  attendants  instead  of  my  maid,  saying,  "0  if  you 
please,  miss,  would  you  step  and  speak  to  Mr.  Jarndyce ! 99 

It  was  one  of  Charley's  peculiarities,  that  whenever  she  was 
charged  with  a  message  she  always  began  to  deliver  it  as  soon 
as  she  beheld,  at  any  distance,  the  person  for  whom  it  ^vas 
intended.  Therefore  I  saw  Charley,  asking  me  in  her  usual 
form  of  words,  to  "  step  and  speak 99  to  Mr.  Jarndyce,  long 
before  I  heard  her.  And  when  I  did  hear  her,  she  had  said 
it  so  often  that  she  was  out  of  breath. 

I  told  Ada  I  would  make  haste  back,  and  inquired  of  Charley, 
as  we  went  in,  whether  there  was  not  a  gentleman  with  Mr. 
Jarndyce  ?  To  which  Charley,  whose  grammar,  I  confess  to 
my  shame,  never  did  any  credit  to  my  educational  powers, 
replied,  "  Yes,  miss.  Him  as  come  down  in  the  country  with 
Mr.  Pvichard." 

A  more  complete  contrast  than  my  Guardian  and  Mr.  Vholes, 
I  suppose  there  could  not  be.  I  found  them  looking  at  one 
another  across  a  table ;  the  one  so  open,  and  the  other  so  close ; 
the  one  so  broad  and  upright,  and  the  other  so  narrow  and 


192 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


stooping ;  the  one  giving  out  what  he  had  to  say  in  such  a 
rich  ringing  voice,  and  the  other  keeping  it  in  in  such  a  cold- 
blooded, gasping,  fish-like  manner;  that  I  thought  I  never 
had  seen  two  people  so  unmatched. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Vholes,  my  dear/'  said  my  Guardian.  Not 
with  the  greatest  urbanity,  I  must  say. 

Mr.  Vholes  rose,  gloved  and  buttoned  up  as  usual,  and  seated 
himself  again,  just  as  he  had  seated  himself  beside  Richard 
in  the  gig.  Not  having  Richard  to  look  at,  he  looked  straight 
before  him. 

"  Mr.  Vholes,"  said  my  Guardian,  eying  his  black  figure,  as 
if  he  were  a  bird  of  ill-omen,  "  has  brought  an  ugly  report  of 
our  most  unfortunate  Rick."  Laying  a  marked  emphasis  on 
most  unfortunate,  as  if  the  words  were  rather  descriptive  of 
his  connection  with  Mr.  Vholes, 

I  sat  down  between  them ;  Mr.  Vholes  remained  immov- 
able, except  that  he  secretly  picked  at  one  of  the  red  pimples 
on  his  yellow  face  with  his  black  glove. 

"And  as  Rick  and  you  are  happily  good  friends,  I  should  , 
like  to  know,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  what  you  think,  my  dear. 
Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  —  as  to  speak  up,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  " 

Doing  anything  but  that,  Mr.  Vholes  observed,  — 

"I  have  been  saying  that  I  have  reason  to  know,  Miss  ! 
Summerson,  as  Mr.  C's  professional  adviser,  that  Mr.  C's  j 
circumstances  are  at  the  present  moment  in  an  embarrassed  j 
state.    Not  so  much  in  point  of  amount,  as  owing  to  the  pecul-  \ 
iar  and  pressing  nature  of  liabilities  Mr.  C  has  incurred,  and  . 
the  means  he  has  of  liquidating  or  meeting  the  same.    I  have 
staved  off  many  little  matters  for  Mr.  C ;  but  there  is  a  limit 
to  staving  off,  and  we  have  reached  it.    I  have  made  some 
advances  out  of  pocket  to  accommodate  these  unpleasantnesses, 
but  I  necessarily  look  to  being  repaid,  for  I  do  not  pretend  to 
be  a  man  of  capital,  and  I  have  a  father  to  support  in  the  Vale 
of  Taunton,  besides  striving  to  realize  some  little  independence 
for  three  dear  girls  at  home.    My  apprehension  is,  Mr.  C's 
circumstances  being  such,  lest  it  should  end  in  his  obtaining 
leave  to  part  with  his  commission ;  which  at  all  events  is 
desirable  to  be  made  known  to  his  connections." 

Mr.  Vholes,  who  had  looked  at  me  while  speaking,  here 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


193 


merged  into  the  silence  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  broken, 
so  stifled  was  his  tone ;  and  looked  before  him  again. 

"  Imagine  the  poor  fellow  without  even  his  present  resource/' 
said  my  Guardian  to  me.  "  Yet  what  can  I  do  ?  You  know 
him,  Esther.  He  would  never  accept  of  help  from  me,  now. 
To  offer  it,  or  hint  at  it,  would  be  to  drive  him  to  an  extrem- 
ity, if  nothing  else  did." 

Mr.  Vholes  hereupon  addressed  me  again. 

"  What  Mr.  Jarndyce  remarks,  miss,  is  no  doubt  the  case, 
and  is  the  difficulty.  I  do  not  see  that  anything  is  to  be  done. 
I  do  not  say  that  anything  is  to  be  done.  Far  from  it.  I 
merely  come  down  here  under  the  seal  of  confidence  and  men- 
tion it,  in  order  that  everything  may  be  openly  carried  on, 
and  that  it  may  not  be  said  afterwards  that  everything  was 
not  openly  carried  on.  My  wish  is  that  everything  should  be 
openly  carried  on.  I  desire  to  leave  a  good  name  behind  me. 
If  I  consulted  merely  my  own  interests  with  Mr.  C,  I  should 
not  be  here.  So  insurmountable,  as  you  must  well  know, 
would  be  his  objections.  This  is  not  a  professional  attendance. 
This  can  be  charged  to  nobody.  I  have  no  interest  in  it,  except 
as  a  member  of  society  and  a  father  —  and  a  son,"  said  Mr. 
Vholes,  who  had  nearly  forgotten  that  point. 

It  appeared  to  us  that  Mr.  Vholes  said  neither  more  nor 
less  than  the  truth,  in  intimating  that  he  sought  to  divide  the 
responsibility,  such  as  it  was,  of  knowing  Richard's  situation. 
I  could  only  suggest  that  I  should  go  down  to  Deal,  where 
Richard  was  then  stationed,  and  see  him,  and  try  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  avert  the  worst.  Without  consulting  Mr.  Vholes  on  this 
point,  I  took  my  Guardian  aside  to  propose  it,  while  Mr.  Vholes 
gauntly  stalked  to  the  fire,  and  warmed  his  funeral  gloves. 

The  fatigue  of  the  journey  formed  an  immediate  objection 
on  my  Guardian's  part ;  but  as  I  saw  he  had  no  other,  and  as 
I  was  only  too  happy  to  go,  I  got  his  consent.  We  had  then 
merely  to  dispose  of  Mr.  Vholes. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Jarndyce,  "Miss  Summerson  will  com- 
municate with  Mr.  Carstone,  and  we  can  only  hope  that  his 
position  may  be  yet  retrievable.  You  will  allow  me  to  order 
you  lunch  after  your  journey,  sir." 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Jarndyce,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  putting  out 

VOL.  II. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


his  long  black  sleeve,  to  check  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  "not 
any.  I  thank  you,  no,  not  a  morsel.  My  digestion  is  much 
impaired,  and  I  am  but  a  poor  knife  and  fork  at  any  time.  If 
I  was  to  partake  of  solid  food  at  this  period  of  the  day,  I  don't 
know  what  the  consequences  might  be.  Everything  having 
been  openly  carried  on,  sir,  I  will  now  with  your  permission 
take  my  leave." 

"  And  I  would  that  you  could  take  your  leave,  and  we  could 
all  take  our  leave,  Mr.  Vholes,"  returned  my  Guardian,  bitterly, 
"of  a  Cause  you  know  of." 

Mr.  Vholes,  whose  black  dye  was  so  deep  from  head  to  foot 
that  it  had  quite  steamed  before  the  fire,  diffusing  a  very 
unpleasant  perfume,  made  a  short  one-sided  inclination  of  his 
head  from  the  neck,  and  slowly  shook  it. 

"  We  whose  ambition  it  is  to  be  looked  upon  in  the  light  of 
respectable  practitioners,  sir,  can  but  put  our  shoulders  to  the 
wheel.  We  do  it,  sir.  At  least,  I  do  it  myself ;  and  I  wish 
to  think  well  of  my  professional  brethren,  one  and  all.  You 
are  sensible  of  an  obligation  not  to  refer  to  me,  miss,  in  com- 
municating with  Mr.  C  ?  " 

I  said  I  would  be  careful  not  to  do  it. 

"Just  so,  miss.    Good-morning.    Mr.  Jarndyce,  good-morn- 
ing, sir."  Mr.  Vholes  put  his  dead  glove,  which  scarcely  seemed  [ 
to  have  any  hand  in  it,  on  my  fingers,  and  then  on  my  Guard-  \ 
ian's  fingers,  and  took  his  long  thin  shadow  away.    I  thought 
of  it  on  the  outside  of  the  coach,  passing  over  all  the  sunny 
landscape  between  us  and  London,  chilling  the  seed  in  the  ] 
ground  as  it  glided  along. 

Of  course  it  became  necessary  to  tell  Ada  where  I  was 
going,  and  why  I  was  going ;  and  of  course  she  was  anxious 
and  distressed.  But  she  was  too  true  to  Richard  to  say  any- 
thing but  words  of  pity  and  words  of  excuse;  and  in  a  more 
loving  spirit  still  —  my  dear,  devoted  girl !  —  she  wrote  him  a 
long  letter  of  which  I  took  charge. 

Charley  was  to  be  my  travelling  companion,  though  I  am 
sure  I  wanted  none,  and  would  willingly  have  left  her  at  home. 
We  all  went  to  London  that  afternoon,  and  finding  two  places 
in  the  mail,  secured  them.  At  our  usual  bedtime,  Charley  and 
I  were  rolling  away  seaward  with  the  Kentish  letters. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


195 


It  was  a  night's  journey  in  those  coach  times ;  but  we  had 
the  mail  to  ourselves,  and  did  not  find  the  night  very  tedious. 
It  passed  with  me  as  I  suppose  it  would  with  most  people 
under  such  circumstances.  At  one  while,  my  journey  looked 
hopeful,  and  at  another  hopeless.  Now  I  thought  that  I 
should  do  some  good,  and  now  I  wondered  how  I  could  ever 
have  supposed  so.  Now  it  seemed  one  of  the  most  reasonable 
things  in  the  world  that  I  should  have  come,  and  now  one  of 
the  most  unreasonable.  In  what  state  I  should  find  Richard, 
what  I  should  say  to  him,  and  what  he  would  say  to  me,  occu- 
pied my  mind  by  turns  with  these  two  states  of  feeling;  and 
the  wheels  seemed  to  play  one  tune  (to  which  the  burden  of 
my  Guardian's  letter  set  itself)  over  and  over  again  all  night. 

At  last  we  came  into  the  narrow  streets  of  Deal ;  and  very 
gloomy  they  were,  upon  a  raw  misty  morning.  The  long  flat 
beach,  with  its  little  irregular  houses,  wooden  and  brick,  and 
its  litter  of  capstans,  and  great  boats,  and  sheds,  and  bare 
upright  poles  with  tackle  and  blocks,  and  loose  gravelly  waste 
places  overgrown  with  grass  and  weeds,  wore  as  dull  an 
appearance  as  any  place  I  ever  saw.  The  sea  was  heaving 
under  a  thick  white  fog;  and  nothing  else  was  moving  but  a 
few  early  ropemakers,  who,  with  the  yarn  twisted  round  their 
bodies,  looked  as  if,  tired  of  their  present  state  of  existence, 
they  were  spinning  themselves  into  cordage. 

But  when  we  got  into  a  warm  room  in  an  excellent  hotel, 
and  sat  down,  comfortably  washed  and  dressed,  to  an  early 
breakfast  (for  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  going  to  bed),  Deal 
began  to  look  more  cheerful.  Our  little  room  was  like  a  ship's 
cabin,  and  that  delighted  Charley  very  much.  Then  the  fog 
began  to  rise  like  a  curtain  ;  and  numbers  of  ships  that  we  had 
had  no  idea  were  near,  appeared.  I  don't  know  how  many  sail 
the  waiter  told  us  were  then  lying  in  the  Downs.  Some  of 
these  vessels  were  of  grand  size :  one  was  a  large  Indiaman 
just  come  home  :  and  when  the  sun  shone  through  the  clouds, 
making  silvery  pools  in  the  dark  sea,  the  way  in  which  these 
ships  brightened,  and  shadowed,  and  changed,  amid  a  bustle 
of  boats  putting  off  from  the  shore  to  them  and  from  them  to 
the  shore,  and  a  general  life  and  motion  in  themselves  and 
everything  around  them,  was  most  beautiful. 


196 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


The  large  Indiaman  was  our  great  attraction,  because  she 
had  come  into  the  Downs  in  the  night.  She  was  surrounded 
by  boats ;  and  we  said  how  glad  the  people  on  board  of  her 
must  be  to  come  ashore.  Charley  was  curious  too,  about  the 
voyage,  and  about  the  heat  in  India,  and  the  serpents  and  the 
tigers ;  and  as  she  picked  up  such  information  much  faster 
than  grammar,  I  told  her  what  I  knew  on  those  points.  I  told 
her,  too,  how  people  in  such  voyages  were  sometimes  wrecked 
and  cast  on  rocks,  where  they  were  saved  by  the  intrepidity 
and  humanity  of  one  man.  And  Charley  asking  how  that 
could  be,  I  told  her  how  we  knew  at  home  of  such  a  case. 

I  had  thought  of  sending  Richard  a  note,  saying  I  was  there, 
but  it  seemed  so  much  better  to  go  to  him  without  preparation. 
As  he  lived  in  barracks  I  was  a  little  doubtful  whether  this 
was  feasible,  but  we  went  out  to  reconnoitre.  Peeping  in  at 
the  gate  of  the  barrack  yard,  we  found  everything  very  quiet 
at  that  time  in  the  morning ;  and  I  asked  a  sergeant  standing 
on  the  guardhouse-steps,  where  he  lived.  He  sent  a  man 
before  to  show  me,  who  went  up  some  bare  stairs,  and  knocked 
with  his  knuckles  at  a  door  and  left  us. 

"  Now  then  ! "  cried  Richard  from  within.  So  I  left  Charley 
in  the  little  passage,  and  going  on  to  the  half-open  door,  said, 
"  Can  I  come  in,  Richard  ?    It's  only  Dame  Durden." 

He  was  writing  at  a  table,  with  a  great  confusion  of  clothes, 
tin  cases,  books,  boots,  brushes,  and  portmanteaus  strewn  all 
about  the  floor.  He  was  only  half  dressed  —  in  plain  clothes, 
I  observed,  not  in  uniform  —  and  his  hair  was  unbrushed,  and 
he  looked  as  wild  as  his  room.  All  this  I  saw  after  he  had 
heartily  welcomed  me,  and  I  was  seated  near  him,  for  he 
started  upon  hearing  my  voice,  and  caught  me  in  his  arms  in 
a  moment.  Dear  Richard  !  He  was  ever  the  same  to  me. 
Down  to  —  ah,  poor  poor  fellow !  —  to  the  end  he  never  received 
me  but  with  something  of  his  old  merry  boyish  manner. 

"Good  Heaven,  my  dear  little  woman"  said  he,  "how  do  you 
come  here  ?  Who  could  have  thought  of  seeing  you  ?  Nothing 
the  matter  ?    Ada  is  well  ?  " 

"Quite  well.    Lovelier  than  ever,  Richard  !  " 

"Ah ! "  he  said,  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "My  poor  cousin ! 
I  was  writing  to  you,  Esther." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


197 


So  worn  and  haggard  as  he  looked,  even  in  the  fulness  of 
his  handsome  youth,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  crushing 
the  closely  written  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand  ! 

"  Have  you  been  at  the  trouble  of  writing  all  that,  and  am 
I  not  to  read  it  after  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  my  dear/'  he  returned,  with  a  hopeless  gesture.  "  You 
may  read  it  in  the  whole  room.    It  is  all  over  here." 

I  mildly  entreated  him  not  to  be  despondent.  I  told  him 
that  I  had  heard  by  chance  of  his  being  in  difficulty,  and  had 
come  to  consult  with  him  what  could  best  be  done. 

"  Like  you,  Esther,  but  useless,  and  so  not  like  you  ! "  said 
he  with  a  melancholy  smile.  "I  am  away  on  leave  this  day 
—  should  have  been  gone  in  another  hour  —  and  that  is  to 
smooth  it  over,  for  my  selling  out.  Well !  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.  So  this  calling  follows  the  rest.  I  only  want  to 
have  been  in  the  church,  to  have  made  the  round  of  all  the 
professions." 

"  Richard,"  I  urged,  "  it  is  not  so  hopeless  as  that  ?  " 

"  Esther,"  he  returned,  "it  is  indeed.  I  am  just  so  near 
disgrace  as  that  those  who  are  put  in  authority  over  me  (as 
the  catechism  goes)  would  far  rather  be  without  me  than  with 
me.  And  they  are  right.  Apart  from  debts  and  duns,  and 
all  such  drawbacks,  I  am  not  fit  even  for  this  employment.  I 
have  no  care,  no  mind,  no  heart,  no  soul,  but  for  one  thing. 
Why,  if  this  bubble  hadn't  broken  now,"  he  said,  tearing  the 
letter  he  had  written  into  fragments,  and  moodily  casting 
them  away,  by  driblets,  "  how  could  I  have  gone  abroad  ?  I 
must  have  been  ordered  abroad ;  but  how  could  I  have  gone. 
How  could  I,  with  my  experience  of  that  thing,  trust  even 
Vholes  unless  I  was  at  his  back ! " 

I  suppose  he  knew  by  my  face  what  I  was  about  to  say, 
but  he  caught  the  hand  I  had  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  touched 
my  own  lips  with  it  to  prevent  me  from  going  on. 

"No,  Dame  Durden  !  Two  subjects  I  forbid  —  must  forbid. 
The  first  is  John  Jarndyce.  The  second,  you  know  what. 
Call  it  madness,  and  I  tell  you  I  can't  help  it  now,  and  can't 
be  sane.  But  it  is  no  such  thing;  it  is  the  one  object  I  have 
to  pursue.  It  is  a  pity  I  ever  was  prevailed  upon  to  turn  out 
of  my  road  for  any  other.  •  It  would  be  wisdom  to  abandon  it 


198 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


now,  after  all  the  time,  anxiety  and  pains  I  have  bestowed 
upon  it !  0  yes,  true  wisdom.  It  would  be  very  agreeable, 
too,  to  some  people;  but  I  never  will." 

He  was  in  that  mood  in  which  I  thought  it  best  not  to 
increase  his  determination  (if  anything  could  increase  it) 
by  opposing  him.  I  took  out  Ada's  letter,  and  put  it  in  his 
hand. 

"  Am  I  to  read  it  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

As  I  told  him  yes,  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  and,  resting  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  began.  He  had  not  read  far,  when  he 
rested  his  head  upon  his  two  hands  —  to  hide  his  face  from 
me.  In  a  little  while  he  rose  as  if  the  Jight  were  bad,  and 
went  to  the  window.  He  finished  reading  it  there,  with  his 
back  towards  me ;  and,  after  he  had  finished  and  had  folded 
it  up,  stood  there  for  some  minutes  with  the  letter  in  his 
hand.  When  he  came  back  to  his  chair,  I  saw  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Of  course,  Esther,  you  know  what  she  says  here  ? " 
He  spoke  in  a  softened  voice,  and  kissed  the  letter  as  he 
asked  me. 

"Yes,  Kichard." 

"  Offers  me,"  he  went  on,  tapping  his  foot  upon  the  floor, 
"the  little  inheritance  she  is  certain  of  so  soon  —  just  as 
little  and  as  much  as  I  have  wasted  —  and  begs  and  prays  me 
to  take  it,  set  myself  right  with  it,  and  remain  in  the 
service." 

"  I  know  your  welfare  to  be  the  dearest  wish  of  her  heart," 
said  I     "  And  0,  my  dear  Kichard,  Ada's  is  a  noble  heart ! " 

"  I  am  sure  it  is.    I  —  I  wish  I  was  dead ! " 

He  went  back  to  the  window,  and  laying  his  arm  across  it, 
leaned  his  head  down  on  his  arm.  It  greatly  affected  me  to 
see  him  so ;  but  I  hoped  he  might  become  more  yielding,  and 
I  remained  silent.  My  experience  was  very  limited ;  I  was 
not  at  all  prepared  for  his  rousing  himself  out  of  this  emotion 
to  a  new  sense  of  injury. 

"And  this  is  the  heart  that  the  same  John  Jarndyce,  who 
is  not  otherwise  to  be  mentioned  between  us,  stepped  in  to 
estrange  from  me,"  said  he,  indignantly.  "And  the  dear 
girl  makes  me  this  generous  offer  from  under  the  same  John 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


199 


Jarndyce's  roof,  and  with  the  same  John  Jarndyce's  gracious 
consent  and  connivance,  I  dare  say,  as  a  new  means  of  buying 
me  off." 

u  Richard ! "  I  cried  out,  rising  hastily,  "  I  will  not  hear 
you  say  such  shameful  words  ! "  I  was  very  angry  with  him, 
indeed,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life ;  but  it  only  lasted  a 
moment.  When  I  saw  his  worn  young  face  looking  at  me, 
as  if  he  were  sorry,  I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said, 
"  If  you  please,  my  dear  Richard,  do  not  speak  in  such  a  tone 
to  me.    Consider  !  " 

He  blamed  himself  exceedingly,  and  told  me  in  the  most 
generous  manner,  that  he  had  been  very  wrong,  and  that  he 
begged  my  pardon  a  thousand  times.  At  that  I  laughed,  but 
trembled  a  little  too,  for  I  was  rather  fluttered  after  being  so 
fiery. 

"To  accept  this  offer,  my  dear  Esther,"  said  he,  sitting 
down  beside  me,  and  resuming  our  conversation,  — "  once 
more,  pray,  pray  forgive  me;  I  am  deeply  grieved  —  to  accept 
my  dearest  cousin's  offer  is,  I  need  not  say,  impossible. 
Besides,  I  have  letters  and  papers  that  I  could  show  you, 
which  would  convince  you  it  is  all  over  here.  I  have  done 
with  the  red  coat,  believe  me.  But  it  is  some  satisfaction,  in 
the  midst  of  my  troubles  and  perplexities,  to  know  that  I  am 
pressing  Ada's  interests  in  pressing  my  own.  Vholes  has  his 
shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  he  cannot  help  urging  it  on  as 
much  for  her  as  for  me,  thank  God  ! 99 

His  sanguine  hopes  were  rising  within  him,  and  lighting 
up  his  features,  but  they  made  his  face  more  sad  to  me  than 
it  had  been  before. 

"  No,  no  !  n  cried  Richard  exultingly.  "  If  every  farthing 
of  Ada's  little  fortune  were  mine,  no  part  of  it  should  be 
spent  in  retaining  me  in  what  I  am  not  fit  for,  can  take  no 
interest  in,  and  am  weary  of.  It  should  be  devoted  to  what 
promises  a  better  return,  and  should  be  used  where  she  has  a 
larger  stake.  Don't  be  uneasy  for  me  !  I  shall  now  have 
only  one  thing  on  my  mind,  and  Vholes  and  I  will  work  it. 
I  shall  not  be  without  means.  Free  of  my  commission,  I 
shall  be  able  to  compound  with  some  small  usurers,  who  will 
hear  of  nothing  but  their  bond  now  —  Vholes  says  so.  I 


200 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


should  have  a  balance  in  my  favor  any  way,  but  that  will 
swell  it.  Come,  come  !  You  shall  carry  a  letter  to  Ada  from 
me,  Esther,  and  you  must  both  of  you  be  more  hopeful  of 
me,  and  not  believe  that  I  am  quite  cast  away  just  yet,  my 
dear." 

I  will  not  repeat  what  I  said  to  Richard.  I  know  it  was 
tiresome,  and  nobody  is  to  suppose  for  a  moment  that  it  was 
at  all  wise.  It  only  came  from  my  heart.  He  heard  it 
patiently  and  feelingly ;  but  I  saw  that  on  the  two  subjects 
he  had  reserved  it  was  at  present  hopeless  to  make  any  repre- 
sentation to  him.  I  saw  too,  and  had  experienced  in  this  very 
interview,  the  sense  of  my  Guardian's  remark,  that  it  was 
even  more  mischievous  to  use  persuasion  with  him  than  to 
leave  him  as  he  was. 

Therefore  I  was  driven  at  last  to  asking  Richard  if  he 
would  mind  convincing  me  that  it  really  was  all  over  there, 
as  he  had  said,  and  that  it  was  not  his  mere  impression. 
He  showed  me  without  hesitation  a  correspondence  making 
it  quite  plain  that  his  retirement  was  arranged.  I  found, 
from  what  he  told  me,  that  Mr.  Vholes  had  copies  of  these 
papers,  and  had  been  in  consultation  with  him  throughout. 
Beyond  ascertaining  this,  and  having  been  the  bearer  of 
Ada's  letter,  and  being  (as  I  was  going  to  be)  Richard's  com- 
panion back  to  London,  I  had  done  no  good  by  coming  down. 
Admitting  this  to  myself  with  a  reluctant  heart,  I  said  I 
would  return  to  the  hotel  and  wait  until  he  joined  me  there; 
so  he  threw  a  cloak  over  his  shoulders  and  saw  me  to  the 
gate,  and  Charley  and  I  went  back  along  the  beach. 

There  was  a  concourse  of  people  in  one  spot,  surrounding 
some  naval  officers  who  were  landing  from  a  boat,  and  press- 
ing about  them  with  unusual  interest.  I  said  to  Charley  this 
would  be  one  of  the  great  Indiaman's  boats  now,  and  we 
stopped  to  look. 

The  gentlemen  came  slowly  up  from  the  water-side,  speaking 
good-humoredly  to  each  other  and  to  the  people  around,  and 
glancing  about  them  as  if  they  were  glad  to  be  in  England 
again.  "  Charley,  Charley  !  "  said  I,  "  come  away  ! 99  And  I 
hurried  on  so  swiftly  that  my  little  maid  was  surprised. 

It  was  not  until  we  were  shut  up  in  our  cabin-room,  and  I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


201 


had  had  time  to  take  breath,  that  I  began  to  think  why  T  had 
made  such  haste.  In  one  of  the  sunburnt  faces  I  had  recog- 
nized Mr.  Allan  Woodcourt,  and  I  had  been  afraid  of  his 
recognizing  me.  I  had  been  unwilling  that  he  should  see  my 
altered  looks.  I  had  been  taken  by  surprise,  and  my  courage 
had  quite  failed  me. 

But  I  knew  this  would  not  do,  and  I  now  said  to  myself, 
"  My  dear,  there  is  no  reason  —  there  is  and  there  can  be  no 
reason  at  all  —  why  it  should  be  worse  for  you  now,  than  it 
ever  has  been.  What  you  were  last  month,  you  are  to-day ; 
you  are  no  worse,  you  are  no  better.  This  is  not  your  reso- 
lution ;  call  it  up,  Esther,  call  it  up !  "  I  was  in  a  great 
tremble  —  with  running  —  and  at  first  was  quite  unable  to 
calm  myself;  but  I  got  better,  and  I  was  very  glad  to 
know  it. 

The  party  came  to  the  hotel.  I  heard  them  speaking  on 
the  staircase.  I  was  sure  it  was  the  same  gentlemen  because 
I  knew  their  voices  again  —  I  mean  I  knew  Mr.  Woodcourt's. 
It  would  still  have  been  a  great  relief  to  me  to  have  gone 
away  without  making  myself  known,  but  I  was  determined 
not  to  do  so.    "No,  my  dear,  no.    No,  no,  no  !  " 

I  untied  my  bonnet,  and  put  my  veil  half  up  —  I  think  I 
mean  half  down,  but  it  matters  very  little  —  and  wrote  on  one 
of  my  cards  that  I  happened  to  be  there  with  Mr.  Richard 
Carstone  ;  and  I  sent  it  to  Mr.  Woodcourt.  He  came  imme- 
diately. I  told  him  I  was  rejoiced  to  be  by  chance  among  the 
first  to  welcome  him  home  to  England.  And  I  saw  that  he 
was  very  sorry  for  me. 

"  You  have  been  in  shipwreck  and  peril  since  you  left  us, 
Mr.  Woodcourt,"  said  I,  "but  we  can  hardly  call  that  a 
misfortune  which  enabled  you  to  be  so  useful  and  so  brave. 
We  read  of  it  with  the  truest  interest.  It  first  came  to  my 
knowledge  through  your  old  patient,  poor  Miss  Flite,  when  I 
was  recovering  from  my  severe  illness." 

"  Ah  !  little  Miss  Flite  ! "  he  said.  "  She  lives  the  same 
life  yet  ?  " 

"Just  the  same." 

I  was  so  comfortable  with  myself  now,  as  not  to  mind  the 
veil,  and  to  be  able  to  put  it  aside. 


202 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Her  gratitude  to  you,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  is  delightful.  She 
is  a  most  affectionate  creature,  as  I  have  reason  to  say." 

"  You  —  you  have  found  her  so  ?  "  he  returned.  "I  —  I  am 
glad  of  that."  He  was  so  very  sorry  for  me  that  he  could 
scarcely  speak. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  I,  "that  I  was  deeply  touched  by  her 
sympathy  and  pleasure  at  the  time  I  have  referred  to." 
"  I  was  grieved  to  hear  that  you  had  been  very  ill." 
u  I  was  very  ill." 

"  But  you  have  quite  recovered  ?  " 

"I  have  quite  recovered  my  health  and  my  cheerfulness," 
said  I.  "  You  know  how  good  my  Guardian  is,  and  what  a 
happy  life  we  lead  ;  and  I  have  everything  to  be  thankful  for, 
and  nothing  in  the  world  to  desire." 

I  felt  as  if  he  had  greater  commiseration  for  me  than  I  had 
ever  had  for  myself.  It  inspired  me  with  new  fortitude,  and 
new  calmness,  to  find  that  it  was  I  who  was  under  the 
necessity  of  reassuring  him.  I  spoke  to  him  of  his  voyage 
out  and  home,  and  of  his  future  plans,  and  of  his  probable 
return  to  India.  He  said  that  was  very  doubtful.  He  had 
not  found  himself  more  favored  by  fortune  there,  than  here. 
He  had  gone  out  a  poor  ship's  surgeon,  and  had  come  home 
nothing  better.  While  we  were  talking,  and  when  I  was  glad 
to  believe  that  I  had  alleviated  (if  I  may  use  such  a  term)  the 
shock  he  had  had  in  seeing  me,  Eichard  came  in.  He  had 
heard  down-stairs  who  was  with  me,  and  they  met  with 
cordial  pleasure. 

I  saw  that  after  their  first  greetings  were  over,  and  when 
they  spoke  of  Eichard's  career,  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  a  percep- 
tion that  all  was  not  going  well  with  him.  He  frequently 
glanced  at  his  face,  as  if  there  were  something  in  it  that  gave 
him  pain ;  and  more  than  once  he  looked  towards  me,  as 
though  he  sought  to  ascertain  whether  I  knew  what  the  truth 
was.  Yet  Eichard  was  in  one  of  his  sanguine  states,  and  in 
good  spirits ;  and  was  thoroughly  pleased  to  see  Mr.  Wood- 
court  again,  whom  he  had  always  liked. 

Eichard  proposed  that  we  all  should  go  to  London  together; 
but  Mr.  Woodcourt  having  to  remain  by  his  ship  a  little 
longer,  could  not  join  us.    He  dined  with  us,  however,  at  an 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


203 


early  hour;  and  became  so  much  more  like  what  he  used 
to  be,  that  I  was  still  more  at  peace  to  think  I  had  been 
able  to  soften  his  regrets.  Yet  his  mind  was  not  relieved  of 
Eichard.  When  the  coach  was  almost  ready,  and  Eichard 
ran  down  to  look  after  his  luggage,  he  spoke  to  me  about 
him. 

I  was  not  sure  that  I  had  a  right  to  lay  his  whole  story 
open  ;  but  I  referred  in  a  few  words  to  his  estrangement  from 
Mr.  Jarndyce,  and  to  his  being  entangled  in  the  ill-fated 
Chancery  suit.  Mr.  Woodcourt  listened  with  interest  and 
expressed  his  regret. 

"I  saw  you  observe  him  rather  closely,"  said  I,  "Do  you 
think  him  so  changed  ?  " 

"He  is  changed,"  he  returned,  shaking  his  head. 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  face  for  the  first  time,  but  it 
was  only  an  instantaneous  emotion.  I  turned  my  head  aside, 
and  it  was  gone. 

"It  is  not,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt,  "his  being  so  much 
younger  or  older,  or  thinner  or  fatter,  or  paler  or  ruddier, 
as  there  being  upon  his  face  such  a  singular  expression. 
I  never  saw  so  remarkable  a  look  in  a  young  person.  One 
cannot  say  that  it  is  all  anxiety,  or  all  weariness  ;  yet  it  is 
both,  and  like  ungrown  despair." 

"  You  do  not  think  he  is  ill  ?  "  said  I. 

No.    He  looked  robust  in  body. 

"  That  he  cannot  be  at  peace  in  mind,  we  have  too  much 
reason  to  know,"  I  proceeded.  "Mr.  Woodcourt,  you  are 
going  to  London  ?  " 

"To-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"There  is  nothing  Eichard  wants  so  much,  as  a  friend. 
He  always  liked  you.  Pray  see  him  when  you  get  there. 
Pray  help  him  sometimes  with  your  companionship,  if  you 
can.  You  do  not  know  of  what  service  it  might  be.  You 
cannot  think  how  Ada,  and  Mr.  Jarndyce,  and  even  I — how 
we  should  all  thank  you,  Mr.  Woodcourt !  " 

"Miss  Summerson,"  he  said,  more  moved  than  he  had 
been  from  the  first,  "  before  Heaven,  I  will  be  a  true  friend 
to  him  !  I  will  accept  him  as  a  trust,  and  it  shall  be  a  sacred 
one ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


u  God  bless  you  !  "  said  I,  with  my  eyes  filling  fast ;  but  I 
thought  they  might,  when  it  was  not  for  myself.  "  Ada  loves 
him  —  we  all  love  him,  but  Ada  loves  him  as  we  cannot.  I 
will  tell  her  what  you  say.  Thank  you,  and  God  bless  you, 
in  her  name  ! " 

Eichard  came  back  as  we  finished  exchanging  these  hurried 
words,  and  gave  me  his  arm  to  take  me  to  the  coach. 

fc<  Woodcourt,"  he  said  unconscious  with  what  application, 
"  pray  let  us  meet  in  London  !  " 

"  Meet  ?  "  returned  the  other.  "  I  have  scarcely  a  friend 
there,  now,  but  you.    Where  shall  I  find  you  ?  " 

"Why,  I  must  get  a  lodging  of  some  sort,"  said  Eichard, 
pondering.    "  Say  at  Yholes's,  Symond's  Inn." 

«  Good  !    Without  loss  of  time." 

They  shook  hands  heartily.  When  I  was  seated  in  the 
coach,  and  Eichard  was  yet  standing  in  the  street,  Mr. 
Woodcourt  laid  his  friendly  hand  on  Eichard's  shoulder,  and 
looked  at  me.    I  understood  him,  and  waved  mine  in  thanks. 

And  in  his  last  look  as  we  drove  away,  I  saw  that  he  was 
very  sorry  for  me.  I  wras  glad  to  see  it.  I  felt  for  my  old 
self  as  the  dead  may  feel  if  they  ever  revisit  these  scenes. 
I  was  glad  to  be  tenderly  remembered,  to  be  gently  pitied, 
not  to  be  quite  forgotten. 


TOM  ALL  ALONE'S. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


205 


CHAPTER  XV. 

STOP  HIM. 

Darkness  rests  upon  Tom-all-Alone's.  Dilating  and 
dilating  since  the  sun  went  down  last  night,  it  has  gradually 
swelled  until  it  fills  every  void  in  the  place.  For  a  time 
there  were  some  dungeon  lights  burning,  as  the  lamp  of 
Life  burns  in  Tom-all-Alone's,  heavily,  heavily,  in  the  nauseous 
air,  and  winking  —  as  that  lamp,  too,  winks  in  Tom-all-Alone's 
—  at  many  horrible  things.  But  they  are  blotted  out.  The 
moon  has  eyed  Tom  with  a  dull  cold  stare,  as  admitting  some 
puny  emulation  of  herself  in  his  desert  region  unfit  for  life 
and  blasted  by  volcanic  fires  ;  but  she  has  passed  on,  and 
is  gone.  The  blackest  nightmare  in  the  infernal  stables 
grazes  on  Tom-all-Alone's,  and  Tom  is  fast  asleep. 

Much  mighty  speech-making  there  has  been,  both  in  and 
out  of  Parliament,  concerning  Tom,  and  much  wrathful  dis- 
putation how  Tom  shall  be  got  right.  Whether  he  shall 
be  put  into  the  main  road  by  constables,  or  by  beadles,  or  by 
bell-ringing,  or  by  force  of  figures,  or  by  correct  principles 
of  taste,  or  by  high  church,  or  by  low  church,  or  by  no 
church ;  whether  he  shall  be  set  to  splitting  trusses  of 
polemical  straws  with  the  crooked  knife  of  his  mind,  or 
whether  he  shall  be  put  to  stone-breaking  instead.  In  the 
midst  of  which  dust  and  noise,  there  is  but  one  thing  per- 
fectly clear,  to  wit,  that  Tom  only  may  and  can,  or  shall  and 
will,  be  reclaimed  according  to  somebody's  theory  but  nobody's 
practice.  And  in  the  hopeful  mean-time,  Tom  goes  to  perdition 
head  foremost  in  his  old  determined  spirit. 

But  he  has  his  revenge.  Even  the  winds  are  his  messen- 
gers, and  they  serve  him  in  these  hours  of  darkness.  There 
is  not  a  drop  of  Tom's  corrupted  blood  but  propagates 
infection  and  contagion  somewhere.    It  shall  pollute,  this 


206 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


very  night,  the  choice  stream  (in  which  chemists  on  analysis 
would  find  the  genuine  nobility)  of  a  Norman  house,  and  his 
Grace  shall  not  be  able  to  say  Nay  to  the  infamous  alliance. 
There  is  not  an  atom  of  Tom's  slime,  not  a  cubic  inch  of 
any  pestilential  gas  in  which  he  lives,  not  one  obscenity  of 
degradation  about  him,  not  an  ignorance,  not  a  wickedness, 
not  a  brutality  of  his  committing,  but  shall  work  its  retri- 
bution, through  every  order  of  society,  up  to  the  proudest  of 
the  proud,  and  to  the  highest  of  the  high.  Verily,  what 
with  tainting,  plundering,  and  spoiling,  Tom  has  his  revenge. 

It  is  a  moot  point  whether  Tom-all-Alone's  be  uglier  by 
day  or  by  night;  but  on  the  argument  that  the  more  that 
is  seen  of  it  the  more  shocking  it  must  be,  and  that  no  part 
of  it  left  to  the  imagination  is  at  all  likely  to  be  made  so 
bad  as  the  reality,  day  carries  it.  The  day  begins  to  break 
now ;  and  in  truth  it  might  be  better  for  the  national  glory 
even  that  the  sun  should  sometimes  set  upon  the  British 
dominions,  than  that  it  should  ever  rise  upon  so  vile  a 
wonder  as  Tom. 

A  brown  sunburnt  gentleman,  who  appears  in  some  in- 
aptitude for  sleep  to  be  wandering  abroad  rather  than  count- 
ing the  hours  on  a  restless  pillow,  strolls  hitherward  at  this 
quiet  time.  Attracted  by  curiosity,  he  often  pauses  and  looks 
about  him,  up  and  down  the  miserable  byways.  Nor  is  he 
merely  curious,  for  in  his  bright  dark  eye  there  is  compas-  j 
sionate  interest;  and  as  he  looks  here  and  there,  he  seems  to 
understand  such  wretchedness,  and  to  have  studied  it  before. 

On  the  banks  of  the  stagnant  channel  of  mud  which  is 
the  main  street  of  Tom-all-Alone's,  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but 
the  crazy  houses,  shut  up  and  silent.  No  waking  creature 
save  himself  appears,  except  in  one  direction,  where  he  sees 
the  solitary  figure  of  a  woman  sitting  on  a  doorstep.  He 
walks  that  way.  Approaching,  he  observes  that  she  has 
journeyed  a  long  distance,  and  is  footsore  and  travel-stained. 
She  sits  on  the  doorstep  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is  waiting, 
with  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  head  upon  her  hand. 
Beside  her  is  a  canvas  bag,  or  bundle,  she  has  carried.  She 
is  dozing  probably,  for  she  gives  no  heed  to  his  steps  as  he  I 
comes  toward  her. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


207 


The  broken  footway  is  so  narrow,  that  when  Allan  Wood- 
court  comes  to  where  the  woman  sits,  he  has  to  turn  into 
the  road  to  pass  her.  Looking  down  at  her  face,  his  eye 
meets  hers,  and  he  stops. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing  sir." 

"  Can't  you  make  them  hear  ?    Do  you  want  to  be  let  in  ?  " 

"  I'm  waiting  till  they  get  up  at  another  house  —  a  lodging- 
house  —  not  here,"  the  woman  patiently  returns.  "  I'm  waiting 
here  because  there  will  be  sun  here  presently  to  warm  me." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  tired.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  sitting 
in  the  street." 

"  Thank  you  sir.    It  don't  matter." 

A  habit  in  him  of  speaking  to  the  poor,  and  of  avoiding 
patronage  or  condescension,  or  childishness  (which  is  the 
favorite  device,  many  people  deeming  it  quite  a  subtlety  to 
talk  to  them  like  little  spelling  books),  has  put  him  on  good 
terms  with  the  woman  easily. 

"Let  me  look  at  your  forehead,"  he  says,  bending  down, 
"lama  doctor.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for 
the  world." 

He  knows  that  by  touching  her  writh  his  skilful  and  accus- 
tomed hand,  he  can  soothe  her  yet  more  readily.  She  makes 
a  slight  objection,  saying,  "It's  nothing;  "  but  he  has  scarcely 
laid  his  fingers  on  the  wounded  place  when  she  lifts  it  up  to 
the  light. 

"  Ay !  A  bad  bruise,  and  the  skin  sadly  broken.  This 
must  be  very  sore." 

"  It  do  ache  a  little,  sir,"  returns  the  woman,  with  a  started 
tear  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Let  me  try  to  make  it  more  comfortable.  My  handker- 
chief won't  hurt  you." 

"  0  dear  no  sir,  I'm  sure  of  that !  " 

He  cleanses  the  injured  place  and  dries  it;  and  having 
carefully  examined  it  and  gently  pressed  it  with  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  takes  a  small  case  from  his  pocket,  dresses  it,  and 
binds  it  up.  While  he  is  thus  employed,  he  says,  after 
laughing  at  his  establishing  a  surgery  in  the  street,  — 

"  And  so  your  husband  is  a  brickmaker  ?  " 


208 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  How  do  you  know  that,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  woman  astonished. 

«  Why,  I  suppose  so,  from  the  color  of  the  clay  upon  your 
bag  and  on  your  dress.  And  I  know  brickmakers  go  about 
working  at  piecework  in  different  places.  And  I  am  sorry  to 
say  I  have  known  them  cruel  to  their  wives  too." 

The  woman  hastily  lifts  up  her  eyes  as  if  she  would  deny 
that  her  injury  is  referable  to  such  a  cause.  But  feeling  the 
hand  upon  her  forehead,  and  seeing  his  busy  and  composed 
face,  she  quietly  drops  them  again. 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  asks  the  surgeon. 

"  He  got  into  trouble  last  night,  sir ;  but  he'll  look  for  me  at 
the  lodging-house." 

"He  will  get  into  worse  trouble  if  he  often  misuses  his 
large  and  heavy  hand  as  he  has  misused  it  here.  But  you 
forgive  him,  brutal  as  he  is,  and  I  say  no  more  of  him,  except 
that  I  wish  he  deserved  it.    You  have  no  young  child  ?  " 

The  woman  shakes  her  head.  "  One  as  I  calls  mine,  sir, 
but  it's  Liz's." 

"  Your  own  is  dead.    I  see  !    Poor  little  thing  !  " 

By  this  time  he  has  finished,  and  is  putting  up  his  case. 
"  I  suppose  you  have  some  settled  home.  Is  it  far  from 
here  ?  "  he  asks,  good-humoredly  making  light  of  what  he 
has  done,  as  she  gets  up  and  courtesies. 

"  It's  a  good  two  or  three  and  twenty  mile  from  here,  sir. 
At  Saint  Albans.  You  know  Saint  Albans,  sir  ?  I  thought 
you  gave  a  start  like,  as  if  you  did  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  something  of  it.  And  now  I  will  ask  you  a 
question  in  return.    Have  you  money  for  your  lodging  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  says,  u  really  and  truly."  And  she  shows  it. 
He  tells  her,  in  acknowledgment  of  her  many  subdued  thanks, 
that  she  is  very  welcome,  gives  her  good-day,  and  walks  away. 
Tom-all- Alone's  is  still  asleep,  and  nothing  is  astir. 

Yes,  something  is  !  As  he  retraces  his  way  to  the  point 
from  which  he  descried  the  woman  at  a  distance  sitting  on 
the  step,  he  sees  a  ragged  figure  coming  very  cautiously  along, 
crouching  close  to  the  soiled  walls  —  which  the  wretchedest 
figure  might  as  well  avoid  —  and  furtively  thrusting  a  hand 
before  it.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  youth,  whose  face  is  hollow, 
and  whose  eyes  have  an  emaciated  glare.    He  is  so  intent  on 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


209 


getting  along  unseen,  that  even  the  apparition  of  a  stranger 
in  whole  garments  does  not  tempt  him  to  look  back.  He 
shades  his  face  with  his  ragged  elbow  as  he  passes  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way,  and  goes  shrinking  and  creeping  on, 
with  his  anxious  hand  before  him,  and  his  shapeless  clothes 
hanging  in  shreds.  Clothes  made  for  what  purpose,  or  of 
what  material,  it  would  be  impossible  to  say.  They  look,  in 
color  and  in  substance,  like  a  bundle  of  rank  leaves  of  swampy 
growth,  that  rotted  long  ago. 

Allan  Woodcourt  pauses  to  look  after  him  and  note  all  this, 
with  a  shadowy  belief  that  he  has  seen  the  boy  before.  He 
cannot  recall  how,  or  where ;  but  there  is  some  association 
in  his  mind  with  such  a  form.  He  imagines  that  he  must 
have  seen  it  in  some  hospital  or  refuge  ;  still,  cannot  make 
out  why  it  comes  with  any  special  force  on  his  remembrance. 

He  is  gradually  emerging  from  Tom-all-Alone's  in  the 
morning  light,  thinking  about  it,  when  he  hears  running  feet 
behind  him ;  and  looking  round,  sees  the  boy  scouring  towards 
him  at  great  speed,  followed  by  the  woman. 

"  Stop  him,  stop  him  ! "  cries  the  woman,  almost  breathless. 
«  Stop  him,  sir  !  " 

He  darts  across  the  road  into  the  boy's  path,  but  the  boy 
is  quicker  than  he  —  makes  a  curve  —  ducks  —  dives  under  his 
hands  —  comes  up  half  a  dozen  yards  beyond  him,  and  scours 
away  again.  Still,  the  woman  follows,  crying,  "  Stop  him, 
sir,  pray  stop  him  !  "  Allan,  not  knowing  but  that  he  has 
just  robbed  her  of  her  money,  follows  in  chase,  and  runs  so 
hard,  that  he  runs  the  boy  down  a  dozen  times ;  but  each 
time  he  repeats  the  curve,  the  duck,  the  dive,  and  scours 
away  again.  To  strike  at  him,  on  any  of  these  occasions, 
would  be  to  fell  and  disable  him  ;  but  the  pursuer  cannot 
resolve  to  do  that ;  and  so  the  grimly  ridiculous  pursuit  con- 
tinues. At  last  the  fugitive,  hard-pressed,  takes  to  a  narrow 
passage,  and  a  court  which  has  no  thoroughfare.  Here, 
against  a  hoarding  of  decaying  timber,  he  is  brought  to  bay, 
and  tumbles  down,  lying  gasping  at  his  pursuer,  who  stands 
and  gasps  at  him  until  the  woman  comes  up. 

"0  you,  Jo!"  cries  the  woman.  "What?  I  have  found 
you  at  last !  " 

VOL.  II. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Jo,"  repeats  Allan,  looking  at  him  with  attention.  "  Jo  ! 
Stay.  To  be  sure  !  I  recollect  this  lad  some  time  ago  being 
brought  before  the  coroner." 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  once  afore  at  the  Inkwhich,"  whimpers  Jo. 
"  What  of  that  ?  Can't  you  never  let  such  an  unfortnet  as 
me  alone  ?  Ain't  I  unfortnet  enough  for  you  yet  ?  How 
unfortnet  do  you  want  me  fur  to  be  ?  I've  been  a  chivied  and 
a  chivied,  fust  by  one  on  you  and  nixt  by  another  on  you,  till 
I'm  worritted  to  skins  and  bones.  The  Inkwhich  warn't  my 
fault.  /  done  nothink.  He  wos  wery  good  to  me  he  wos  ;  he 
wos  the  only  one  I  knowed  to  speak  to,  as  ever  come  across 
my  crossing.  It  ain't  wery  likely  I  should  want  him  to 
be  Inkwhich'd.  I  only  wish  I  wos,  myself.  I  don't  know 
why  I  don't  go  and  make  a  hole  in  the  water,  I'm  sure  I 
don't." 

He  says  it  with  such  a  pitiable  air,  and  his  grimy  tears 
appear  so  real,  and  he  lies  in  the  corner  up  against  the  hoarding 
so  like  a  growth  of  fungus  or  any  unwholesome  excrescence 
produced  there  in  neglect  and  impurity,  that  Allan  Woodcourt 
is  softened  towards  him.  He  says  to  the  woman,  "  Miserable 
creature,  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

To  which  she  only  replies,  shaking  her  head  at  the  prostrate 
figure  more  amazedly  than  angrily :  "  Oh  you,  Jo,  you  Jo.  I 
have  found  you  at  last ! " 

"  What  has  he  done  ?  99  says  Allan.    "  Has  he  robbed  you  ? 99 

"No  sir,  no.  Robbed  me?  He  did  nothing  but  what  was 
kind-hearted  by  me,  and  that's  the  wonder  of  it." 

Allan  looks  from  Jo  to  the  woman,  and  from  the  woman  to 
Jo,  waiting  for  one  of  them  to  unravel  the  riddle. 

"But  he  was  along  with  me,  sir,"  says  the  woman,  —  "0 
you  Jo !  —  he  was  along  with  me,  sir,  down  at  Saint  Albans, 
ill,  and  a  young  lady  Lord  bless  her  for  a  good  friend  to  me 
took  pity  on  him  when  I  durstn't,  and  took  him  home"  — 

Allan  shrinks  back  from  him  with  a  sudden  horror. 

"  Yes  sir,  yes.  Took  him  home,  and  made  him  comfortable, 
and  like  a  thankless  monster  he  ran  away  in  the  night,  and 
never  has  been  seen  or  heard  of  since,  till  I  set  eyes  on  him 
just  now.  And  that  young  lady  that  was  such  a  pretty  dear, 
caught  his  illness,  lost  her  beautiful  looks,  and  wouldn't 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


211 


hardly  be  known  for  the  same  young  lady  now,  if  it  wasn't 
for  her  angel  temper,  and  her  pretty  shape,  and  her  sweet 
voice.  Do  you  know  it  ?  You  ungrateful  wretch,  do  you 
know  that  this  is  all  along  of  you  and  of  her  goodness  to 
you  ?  99  demands  the  woman,  beginning  to  rage  at  him  as  she 
recalls  it,  and  breaking  into  passionate  tears. 

The  boy,  in  rough  sort  stunned  by  what  he  hears,  falls  to 
smearing  his  dirty  forehead  with  his  dirty  palm,  and  to 
staring  at  the  ground,  and  to  shaking  from  head  to  foot  until 
the  crazy  hoarding  against  which  he  leans,  rattles. 

Allan  restrains  the  woman,  merely  by  a  quiet  gesture,  but 
effectually. 

"Richard  told  me,"  he  falters,  "  —  I  mean,  I  have  heard  of 
this  —  don't  mind  me  for  a  moment,  I  will  speak  presently." 

He  turns  away,  and  stands  for  a  while  looking  out  at  the 
covered  passage.  When  he  comes  back,  he  has  recovered  his 
composure ;  except  that  he  contends  against  an  avoidance  of 
the  boy,  which  is  so  very  remarkable,  that  it  absorbs  the 
woman's  attention. 

"  You  hear  what  she  says.    But  get  up,  get  up  ! 99 

Jo,  shaking  and  chattering,  slowly  rises,  and  stands,  after 
the  manner  of  his  tribe  in  a  difficulty,  sideways  against  the 
hoarding,  resting  one  of  his  high  shoulders  against  it,  and 
covertly  rubbing  his  right  hand  over  his  left,  and  his  left  foot 
over  his  right. 

"  You  hear  what  she  says,  and  I  know  it's  true.  Have  you 
been  here  ever  since  ?  99 

"  Wishermaydie  if  I  seen  Tom-all- Alone' s  till  this  blessed 
morning,"  replies  Jo,  hoarsely. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here  now  ?  99  9 

Jo  looks  all  round  the  confined  court,  looks  at  his  questioner 
no  higher  than  the  knees,  and  finally  answers,  — 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  do  nothink,  and  I  can't  get  nothink 
to  do.  I'm  wery  poor  and  ill,  and  T  thought  I'd  come  back 
here  when  there  warn't  nobody  about,  and  lay  down  and  hide 
somewheres  as  I  knows  on  till  arter  dark,  and  then  go  and 
beg  a  trifle  of  Mr.  Snagsby.  He  wos  alius  willin  fur  to  give 
me  somethink  he  wos,  though  Mrs.  Snagsby  she  was  alius  a 
chivying  on  me  —  like  everybody  every wheres." 


212 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  " 

Jo  looks  all  round  the  court  again,  looks  at  his  questioner's 
knees  again,  and  concludes  by  laying  his  profile  against  the 
hoarding  in  a  sort  of  resignation. 

"Did  you  hear  me  ask  you  where  you  have  come  from  ?  P 

"  Tramp  then,"  says  Jo. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  proceeds  Allan,  making  a  strong  effort  to 
overcome  his  repugnance,  going  very  near  to  him,  and  leaning 
over  him  with  an  expression  of  confidence,  "  tell  me  how  it 
came  about  that  you  left  that  house,  when  the  good  young  lady 
had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  pity  you,  and  take  you  home." 

Jo  suddenly  comes  out  of  his  resignation,  and  excitedly 
declares,  addressing  the  woman,  that  he  never  known  about 
the  young  lady,  that  he  never  heern  about  it,  that  he  never 
went«fur  to  hurt  her,  that  he  would  sooner  have  hurt  his  own 
self,  that  he'd  sooner  have  had  his  unfortnet  ed  chopped  off 
than  ever  gone  a-nigh  her,  and  that  she  wos  wery  good  to 
him,  she  wos.  Conducting  himself  throughout  as  if  in  his 
poor  fashion  he  really  meant  it,  and  winding  up  with  some 
very  miserable  sobs. 

Allan  Woodcourt  sees  that  this  is  not  a  sham.  He  con- 
strains himself  to  touch  him.    "  Come  Jo.    Tell  me." 

"No.  I  dustn't,"  says  Jo,  relapsing  into  the  profile  state.  I 
"  I  dustn't,  or  I  would." 

"But  I  must  know,"  returns  the  other,  "all  the  same. 
Come  Jo." 

After  two  or  three  such  adjurations,  Jo  lifts  up  his  head  i 
again,  looks  round  the  court  again,  and  says  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something.    I  wos  took  away.    There  !  " 

"  Took  away  ?    In  the  night  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  Very  apprehensive  of  being  overheard,  Jo  looks 
about  him,  and  even  glances  up  some  ten  feet  at  the  top  of 
the  hoarding,  and  through  the  cracks  in  it,  lest  the  object 
of  his  distrust  should  be  looking  over,  or  hidden  on  the  other 
side. 

"  Who  took  you  away  ?  " 

"  I  dustn't  name  him,"  says  Jo.    "  I  dustn't  do  it,  sir." 
"But  I  want,  in  the  young  lady's  name,  to  know.  You 
may  trust  me.    No  one  else  shall  hear." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


213 


"Ah,  but  I  don't  know,"  replies  Jo,  shaking  his  head 
fearfully,  "  as  he  donH  hear." 
"  Why,  he  is  not  in  this  place." 

"  Oh,  ain't  he  though  ?  "  says  Jo.  "  He's  in  all  manner  of 
places,  all  at  wanst." 

Allan  looks  at  him  in  perplexity,  but  discovers  some  real 
meaning  and  good  faith  at  the  bottom  of  this  bewildering 
reply.  He  patiently  awaits  an  explicit  answer ;  and  Jo,  more 
baffled  by  his  patience  than  by  anything  else,  at  last  desper- 
ately whispers  a  name  in  his  ear. 

"Ay  !  "  says  Allan.    "  Why,  what  had  you  been  doing ?" 

"Nothink,  sir.  Never  done  nothink  to  get  myself  into  no 
trouble,  'sept  in  not  moving  on  and  the  Inkwhich.  But  I'm 
a-moving  on  now.  I'm  a-moving  on  to  the  berry  in  ground  — 
that's  the  move  as  I'm  up  to." 

"  No,  no,  we  will  try  to  prevent  that.  But  what  did  he  do 
with  you  ?  " 

"Put  me  in  a  horsepittle,"  replied  Jo,  whispering,  "till  I 
was  discharged,  then  giv  me  a  little  money  —  four  half  bulls, 
wot  you  may  call  halfcrowns  —  and  ses  'Hook  it!  Nobody 
wants  you  here/  he  ses.  '  You  hook  it.  You  go  and  tramp/ 
he  ses.  'You  move  on/  he  ses.  'Don't  let  me  ever  see  you 
nowheres  within  forty  mile  of  London,  or  you'll  repent  it.' 
So  I  shall,  if  ever  he  doos  see  me,  and  he'll  see  me  if  I'm 
above  ground,"  concludes  Jo,  nervously  repeating  all  his 
former  precautions  and  investigations. 

Allan  considers  a  little ;  then  remarks,  turning  to  the 
woman,  but  keeping  an  encouraging  eye  on  Jo ;  "  He  is  not  so 
ungrateful  as  you  supposed.  He  had  a  reason  for  going  away, 
though  it  was  an  insufficient  one." 

"Thank'ee,  sir,  thank'ee ! "  exclaims  Jo.  "There  now! 
See  how  hard  you  wos  upon  me.  But  ony  you  tell  the  young 
lady  wot  the  genlmn  ses,  and  it's  all  right.  For  you  wos 
wery  good  to  me  too,  and  I  knows  it." 

"Now,  Jo,"  says  Allan,  keeping  his  eye  upon  him,  "come 
with  me,  and  I  will  find  you  a  better  place  than  this  to  lie 
down  and  hide  in.  If  I  take  one  side  of  the  way  and  you  the 
other  to  avoid  observation,  you  will  not  run  away,  I  know 
very  well,  if  you  make  me  a  promise," 


214 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  I  won't,  not  unless  I  wos  to  see  him  a-coming,  sir." 

"  Very  well.  I  take  your  word.  Half  the  town  is  getting 
up  by  this  time,  and  the  whole  town  will  be  broad  awake  in 
another  hour.  Come  along.  Good-day  again,  my  good  woman." 

"  Good-day  again,  sir,  and  I  thank  you  kindly  many  times 
again." 

She  has  been  sitting  on  her  bag,  deeply  attentive,  and  now 
rises  and  takes  it  up.  Jo,  repeating,  "  Ony  you  tell  the  young 
lady  as  I  never  went  fur  to  hurt  her  and  wot  the  genlmn 
ses ! "  nods  and  shambles  and  shivers,  and  smears  and  blinks, 
and  half  laughs  and  half  cries,  a  farewell  to  her,  and  takes  his 
creeping  way  along  after  Allan  Woodcourt,  close  to  the  houses 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  In  this  order,  the  two 
come  up  out  of  Tom-all- Alone's  into  the  broad  rays  of  the  sun- 
light and  the  purer  air. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


215 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
jo's  will. 

As  Allan  Woodcourt  and  Jo  proceed  along  the  streets,  where 
the  high  church  spires  and  the  distances  are  so  near  and  clear 
in  the  morning  light  that  the  city  itself  seems  renewed  by 
rest,  Allan  revolves  in  his  mind  how  and  where  he  shall 
bestow  his  companion.  "  It  surely  is  a  strange  fact/'  he  con- 
siders, "  that  in  the  heart  of  a  civilized  world  this  creature  in 
human  form  should  be  more  difficult  to  dispose  of  than  an 
unknown  dog."  But  it  is  none  the  less  a  fact  because  of  its 
strangeness,  and  the  difficulty  remains. 

At  first,  he  looks  behind  him  often,  to  assure  himself  that 
Jo  is  still  really  following.  But,  look  where  he  will,  he  still 
beholds  him  close  to  the  opposite  houses,  making  his  way  with 
his  wary  hand  from  brick  to  brick  and  from  door  to  door,  and 
often,  as  he  creeps  along,  glancing  over  at  him,  watchfully. 
Soon  satisfied  that  the  last  thing  in  his  thoughts  is  to  give 
him  the  slip,  Allan  goes  on ;  considering  with  a  less  divided 
attention  what  he  shall  do. 

A  breakfast-stall  at  a  street  corner  suggests  the  first  thing 
to  be  done.  He  stops  there,  looks  round,  and  beckons  Jo. 
Jo  crosses,  and  comes  halting  and  shuffling  up,  slowly  scoop- 
ing the  knuckles  of  his  right  hand  round  and  round  in  the 
hollowed  palm  of  his  left  —  kneading  dirt  with  a  natural 
pestle  and  mortar.  What  is  a  dainty  repast  to  Jo  is  then  set 
before  him,  and  he  begins  to  gulp  the  coffee,  and  to  gnaw  the 
bread  and  butter ;  looking  anxiously  about  him  in  all  directions 
as  he  eats  and  drinks,  like  a  scared  animal. 

But  he  is  so  sick  and  miserable,  that  even  hunger  has 
abandoned  him.  "I  thought  I  was  amost  a-starvin,  sir,"  says 
Jo,  soon  putting  down  his  food;  "but  I  don't  know  nothink 
—  not  even  that.    I  don't  care  for  eating  wittles  nor  yet  for 


216 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


drinking  on  'em,"  And  Jo  stands  shivering,  and  looking  at 
the  breakfast  wonderingly. 

Allan  Woodcourt  lays  his  hand  upon  his  pulse,  and  on  his 
chest.  "  Draw  breath,  Jo  !  "  —  "  It  draws,"  says  J o,  "  as  heavy 
as  a  cart."  He  might  add,  "  and  rattles  like  it ; "  but  he  only 
mutters,  "  I'm  a-moving  on,  sir." 

Allan  looks  about  for  an  apothecary's  shop.  There  is  none 
at  hand,  but  a  tavern  does  as  well  or  better.  He  obtains  a 
little  measure  of  wine,  and  gives  the  lad  a  portion  of  it  very 
carefully.  He  begins  to  revive,  almost  as  soon  as  it  passes 
his  lips.  "We  may  repeat  that  dose,  Jo,"  observes  Allan, 
after  watching  him  with  his  attentive  face.  "So!  Now  we 
will  take  five  minutes'  rest,  and  then  go  on  again." 

Leaving  the  boy  sitting  on  the  bench  of  the  breakfast-stall, 
with  his  back  against  an  iron  railing,  Allan  Woodcourt  paces 
up  and  down  in  the  early  sunshine,  casting  an  occasional  look 
towards  him  without  appearing  to  watch  him.  It  requires  no 
discernment  to  perceive  that  he  is  warmed  and  refreshed.  If 
a  face  so  shaded  can  brighten,  his  face  brightens  somewhat ; 
and,  by  little  and  little,  he  eats  the  slice  of  bread  he  had  so 
hopelessly  laid  down.  Observant  of  these  signs  of  improve- 
ment, Allan  engages  him  in  conversation;  and  elicits  to  his 
no  small  wonder  the  adventure  of  the  lady  in  the  veil,  with 
all  its  consequences.  Jo  slowly  munches,  as  he  slowly  tells  it. 
When  he  has  finished  his  story  and  his  bread,  they  go  on  again. 

Intending  to  refer  his  difficulty  in  finding  a  temporary  place 
of  refuge  for  the  boy,  to  his  old  patient,  zealous  little  Miss 
Flite,  Allan  leads  the  way  to  the  court  where  he  and  Jo  first 
foregathered.  But  all  is  changed  at  the  rag  and  bottle  shop ; 
Miss  Flite  no  longer  lodges  there ;  it  is  shut  up ;  and  a  hard- 
featured  female,  much  obscured  by  dust,  whose  age  is  a 
problem  —  but  who  is  indeed  no  other  than  the  interesting 
Judy  —  is  tart  and  spare  in  her  replies.  These  sufficing,  how- 
ever, to  inform  the  visitor  that  Miss  Flite  and  her  birds  are 
domiciled  with  a  Mrs.  Blinder,  in  Bell  Yard,  he  repairs  to 
that  neighboring  place  ;  where  Miss  Flite  (who  rises  early 
that  she  may  be  punctual  at  the  Divan  of  justice  held  by  her 
excellent  friend  the  Chancellor)  comes  running  down-stairs, 
with  tears  of  welcome  and  with  open  arms. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


217 


"My  dear  physician  ! "  cries  Miss  Flite.  "  My  meritorious, 
distinguished,  honorable  officer  ! "  She  uses  some  odd  expres- 
sions, but  is  as  cordial  and  full  of  heart  as  sanity  itself  can  be 
—  more  so  than  it  often  is.  Allan,  very  patient  with  her, 
waits  until  she  has  no  more  raptures  to  express ;  then  points 
out  Jo,  trembling  in  a  doorway,  and  tells  her  how  he  comes 
there. 

"  Where  can  I  lodge  him  hereabouts  for  the  present  ?  Now 
you  have  a  fund  of  knowledge  and  good-sense,  and  can  advise 
me." 

Miss  Flite,  mighty  proud  of  the  compliment,  sets  herself  to 
consider ;  but  it  is  long  before  a  bright  thought  occurs  to  her. 
Mrs.  Blinder  is  entirely  let,  and  she  herself  occupies  poor 
Gridley's  room.  "  Gridley  \"  exclaims  Miss  Flite,  clapping 
her  hands,  after  a  twentieth  repetition  of  this  remark. 
"  Gridley  !  To  be  sure  !  of  course  !  My  dear  physician  ! 
General  George  will  help  us  out." 

It  is  hopeless  to  ask  for  any  information  about  General 
George,  and  would  be,  though  Miss  Flite  had  not  already  run 
up-stairs  to  put  on  her  pinched  bonnet  and  her  poor  little 
shawl,  and  to  arm  herself  with  her  reticule  of  documents. 
But  as  she  informs  her  physician,  in  her  disjointed  manner, 
on  coming  down  in  full  array,  that  General  George,  whom  she 
often  calls  upon,  knows  her  dear  Fitz-Jarndyce,  and  takes  a 
great  interest  in  all  connected  with  her,  Allan  is  induced  to 
think  that  they  may  be  in  the  right  way.  So  he  tells  Jo,  for 
his  encouragement,  that  this  walking  about  will  soon  be  over 
now ;  and  they  repair  to  the  General's.  Fortunately  it  is 
not  far. 

From  the  exterior  of  George's  Shooting  Gallery,  and  the 
long  entry,  and  the  bare  perspective  beyond  it,  Allan  Wood- 
court  augurs  well.  He  also  descries  promise  in  the  figure  of 
Mr.  George  himself,  striding  towards  them  in  his  morning 
exercise  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  no  stock  on,  and  his 
muscular  arms,  developed  by  broad-sword  and  dumb-bell, 
weightily  asserting  themselves  through  his  light  shirt-sleeves. 

"Your  servant,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  with  a  military 
salute.  Good-humoredly  smiling  all  over  his  broad  forehead 
up  into  his  crisp  hair,  he  then  defers  to  Miss  Flite,  as,  with 


218 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


great  stateliness,  and  at  some  length  she  performs  the  courtly 
ceremony  of  presentation.  He  winds  it  up  with  another 
"  Your  servant,  sir  !  "  and  another  salute. 

" Excuse  me,  sir.    A  sailor  I  believe?"  says  Mr.  George. 

"  I  am  proud  to  find  I  have  the  air  of  one/'  returns  Allan ; 
"  but  I  am  only  a  sea-going  doctor." 

"Indeed,  sir!  I  should  have  thought  you  was  a  regular 
blue-jacket,  myself." 

Allan  hopes  Mr.  George  will  forgive  his  intrusion  the  more 
readily  on  that  account,  and  particularly  that  he  will  not  lay 
aside  his  pipe,  which,  in  his  politeness,  he  has  testified  some 
intention  of  doing.  "  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  returns  the 
trooper.  "As  I  know,  by  experience,  that  it's  not  disagree- 
able to  Miss  Flite,  and  since  it's  equally  agreeable  to  your- 
self "  —  and  finishes  the  sentence  by  putting  it  between  his 
lips  again.  Allan  proceeds  to  tell  him  all  he  knows  about 
Jo  ;  unto  which  the  trooper  listens  with  a  grave  face. 

"And  that's  the  lad,  sir,  is  it  ?  "  he  inquires,  looking  along 
the  entry  to  where  Jo  stands  staring  up  at  the  great  letters  on 
the  whitewashed  front,  which  have  no  meaning  in  his  eyes. 

"  That's  he,"  says  Allan.    "  And,  Mr.  George,  I  am  in  this 
difficulty  about  him.    I  am  unwilling  to  place  him  in  a  hos- 
pital, even  if  I  could  procure  him  immediate  admission,  because 
I  foresee  that  he  would  not  stay  there  many  hours,  if  he  could  , 
be  so  much  as  got  there.    The  same  objection  applies  to  a  j 
workhouse ;  supposing  I  had  the  patience  to  be  evaded  and  1 
shirked,  and  handed  about  from  post  to  pillar  in  trying  to  get  j 
him  into  one  —  which  is  a  system  that  I  don't  take  kindly  to."  I 

"  No  man  does,  sir,"  returns  Mr.  George. 

"I  am  convinced  that  he  would  not  remain  in  either  place, 
because  he  is  possessed  by  an  extraordinary  terror  of  this  per- 
son who  ordered  him  to  keep  out  of  the  way;  in  his  igno- 
rance, he  believes  this  person  to  be  everywhere,  and  cognizant 
of  everything." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George.  "  But  you  have  I 
not  mentioned  that  party's  name.    Is  it  a  secret,  sir  ?  " 


"The  boy  makes  it  one.    But  the  name  is  Bucket." 
"Bucket  the  Detective,  sir?" 
"The  same  man." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


219 


"  The  man  is  known  to  me,  sir/5  returns  the  trooper,  after 
blowing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  squaring  his  chest ;  "  and 
the  boy  is  so  far  correct  that  he  undoubtedly  is  a  —  rum  cus- 
tomer." Mr.  George  smokes  with  a  profound  meaning  after 
this,  and  surveys  Miss  Flite  in  silence. 

"  Now,  I  wish  Mr.  Jarndyce  and  Miss  Summerson  at  least 
to  know  that  this  Jo,  who  tells  so  strange  a  story,  has 
reappeared ;  and  to  have  it  in  their  power  to  speak  with  him, 
if  they  should  desire  to  do  so.  Therefore  I  want  to  get  him, 
for  the  present  moment,  into  any  poor  lodging  kept  by  decent 
people,  where  he  would  be  admitted.  Decent  people  and  Jo, 
Mr.  George,"  says  Allan,  following  the  direction  of  the 
trooper's  eyes  along  the  entry,  "  have  not  been  much  ac- 
quainted, as  you  see.  Hence  the  difficulty.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  any  one  in  this  neighborhood,  who  would  receive  him 
for  a  while,  on  my  paying  for  him  beforehand  ?  " 

As  he  puts  the  question,  he  becomes  aware  of  a  dirty-faced 
little  man,  standing  at  the  trooper's  elbow,  and  looking  up, 
with  an  oddly  twisted  figure  and  countenance,  into  the  troop- 
er's face.  After  a  few  more  puffs  at  his  pipe,  the  trooper 
looks  down  askant  at  the  little  man,  and  the  little  man  winks 
up  at  the  trooper. 

"Well,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  "I  can  assure  you  that  I 
would  willingly  be  knocked  on  the  head  at  any  time,  if  it 
would  be  at  all  agreeable  to  Miss  Summerson ;  and  conse- 
quently I  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  do  that  young  lady  any 
service,  however  small.  We  are  naturally  in  the  vagabond 
way  here  sir,  both  myself  and  Phil.  You  see  what  the  place 
is.  You  are  welcome  to  a  quiet  corner  of  it  for  the  boy,  if  the 
same  would  meet  your  views.  No  charge  made,  except  for 
rations.  We  are  not  in  a  flourishing  state  of  circumstances 
here,  sir.  We  are  liable  to  be  tumbled  out  neck  and  crop,  at 
a  moment's  notice.  However,  sir,  such  as  the  place  is,  and  so 
long  as  it  lasts,  here  it  is  at  your  service." 

With  a  comprehensive  wave  of  his  pipe,  Mr.  George  places 
the  whole  building  at  his  visitor's  disposal. 

"I  take  it  for  granted,  sir,"  he  adds,  "you  being  one  of 
the  medical  staff,  that  there  is  no  present  infection  about  this 
unfortunate  subject  ?  " 


220 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Allan  is  quite  sure  of  it. 

"Because,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  shaking  his  head  sorrow- 
fully, "we  have  had  enough  of  that." 

His  tone  is  no  less  sorrowfully  echoed  by  his  new  acquaint- 
ance. "  Still,  I  am  bound  to  tell  you,"  observes  Allan,  after 
repeating  his  former  assurance,  that  the  boy  is  deplorably  low 
and  reduced;  and  that  he  may  be  —  I  do  not  say  that  he  is  — 
too  far  gone  to  recover." 

"  Do  you  consider  him  in  present  danger,  sir  ? "  inquires 
the  trooper. 

"  Yes,  I  fear  so." 

"  Then,  sir,"  returns  the  trooper,  in  a  decisive  manner,  "  it 
appears  to  me  —  being  naturally  in  the  vagabond  way  myself — 
that  the  sooner  he  comes  out  of  the  street,  the  better.  You 
Phil !    Bring  him  in  ! " 

Mr.  Squod  tacks  out,  all  on  one  side,  to  execute  the  word  of 
command ;  and  the  trooper,  having  smoked  his  pipe,  lays  it 
by.  Jo  is  brought  in.  He  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle's 
Tockahoopo  Indians;  he  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Jelly by's  lambs, 
being  wholly  unconnected  with  Borrioboola-Gha ;  he  is  not 
softened  by  distance  and  unfamiliarity  ;  he  is  not  a  genuine 
foreign-grown  savage ;  he  is  the  ordinary  home-made  article. 
Dirty,  ugly,  disagreeable  to  all  the  senses,  in  body  a  common 
creature  of  the  common  streets,  only  in  soul  a  heathen. 
Homely  filth  begrimes  him,  homely  parasites  devour  him, 
homely  sores  are  in  him,  homely  rags  are  on  him ;  native 
ignorance,  the  growth  of  English  soil  and  climate,  sinks  his 
immortal  nature  lower  than  the  beasts  that  perish.  Stand 
forth,  Jo,  in  uncompromising  colors !  From  the  sole  of  thy 
foot  to  the  crown  of  thy  head,  there  is  nothing  interesting 
about  thee. 

He  shuffles  slowly  into  Mr.  George's  gallery,  and  stands 
huddled  together  in  a  bundle,  looking  all  about  the  floor.  He 
seems  to  know  that  they  have  an  inclination  to  shrink  from 
him,  partly  for  what  he  is.  and  partly  for  what  he  has  caused. 
He,  too,  shrinks  from  them.  He  is  not  of  the  same  order  of 
things,  not  of  the  same  place  in  creation.  He  is  of  no  order 
and  no  place ;  neither  of  the  beasts,  nor  of  humanity. 

"  Look  here,  Jo  ! "  says  Allan.    "  This  is  Mr.  George." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


221 


Jo  searches  the  floor  for  some  time  longer,  then  looks  up 
for  a  moment,  and  then  down  again. 

"  He  is  a  kind  friend  to  you,  for  he  is  going  to  give  you 
lodging-room  here." 

Jo  makes  a  scoop  with  one  hand,  which  is  supposed  to  be  a 
bow.  After  a  little  more  consideration,  and  some  backing 
and  changing  of  the  foot  on  which  he  rests,  he  mutters  that 
he  is  "  wery  thankful." 

"You  are  quite  safe  here.  All  you  have  to  do  at  present 
is  to  be  obedient,  and  to  get  strong.  And  mind  you  tell  us 
the  truth  here,  whatever  you  do,  Jo." 

"  Wishermaydie  if  I  don't,  sir,"  says  Jo,  reverting  to  his 
favorite  declaration.  "  I  never  done  nothink  yit,  but  wot  you 
knows  on,  to  get  myself  into  no  trouble.  I  never  was  in  no 
other  trouble  at  all,  sir  —  'sept  not  knowin'  nothink  and 
starwation." 

"  I  believe  it.  Now  attend  to  Mr.  George.  I  see  he  is 
going  to  speak  to  you." 

"My  intention  merely  was,  sir,"  observes  Mr.  George, 
amazingly  broad  and  upright,  "to  point  out  to  him  where  he 
can  lie  down,  and  get  a  thorough  good  dose  of  sleep.  Now, 
look  here."  As  the  trooper  speaks,  he  conducts  them  to  the 
other  end  of  the  gallery,  and  opens  one  of  the  little  cabins. 
"  There  you  are,  you  see  !  Here  is  a  mattress,  and  here  you 
may  rest,  on  good  behavior,  as  long  as  Mr.,  I  ask  your  pardon, 
sir ; "  he  refers  apologetically  to  the  card  Allan  has  given 
him  ;  "  Mr.  Woodcourt  pleases.  Don't  you  be  alarmed  if  you 
hear  shots ;  they'll  be  aimed  at  the  target,  and  not  you. 
Now,  there's  another  thing  I  would  recommend,  sir,"  says  the 
trooper,  turning  to  his  visitor.    "Phil,  come  here  ! " 

Phil  bears  down  upon  them,  according  to  his  usual  tactics. 

"  Here  is  a  man,  sir,  who  was  found,  when  a  baby,  in  the 
gutter.  Consequently,  it  is  to  be  expected  that  he  takes  a 
natural  interest  in  this  poor  creature.  You  do,  don't  you, 
Phil  ?  " 

"  Certainly  and  surely  I  do,  guv'ner,"  is  Phil's  reply. 

"  Now  I  was  thinking,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  in  a  martial 
sort  of  confidence,  as  if  he  were  giving  his  opinion  in  a  coun- 
cil of  war  at  a  drum-head,  "  that  if  this  man  was  to  take  him 


222 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


to  a  bath,  and  was  to  lay  out  a  few  shillings  in  getting  him 
one  or  two  coarse  articles  "  — 

"Mr.  George,  my  considerate  friend/'  returns  Allan,  taking 
out  his  purse,  "  it  is  the  very  favor  I  would  have  asked." 

Phil  Squod  and  Jo  are  sent  out  immediately  on  this  work 
of  improvement.  Miss  Flite,  quite  enraptured  by  her  success, 
makes  the  best  of  her  way  to  Court ;  having  great  fears  that 
otherwise  her  friend  the  Chancellor  may  be  uneasy  about  her, 
or  may  give  the  judgment  she  has  so  long  expected,  in  her 
absence ;  and  observing  "  which  you  know,  my  dear  physician, 
and  general,  after  so  many  years,  would  be  too  absurdly 
unfortunate ! "  Allan  takes  the  opportunity  of  going  out 
to  procure  some  restorative  medicines ;  and  obtaining  them 
near  at  hand,  soon  returns,  to  find  the  trooper  walking  up  and 
down  the  gallery,  and  to  fall  into  step  and  walk  with  him. 

"  I  take  it,  sir,"  says  Mr.  George,  "  that  you  know  Miss 
Summerson  pretty  well  ?  " 

Yes,  it  appears. 

"  Not  related  to  her,  sir  ?  " 

No,  it  appears. 

"  Excuse  the  apparent  curiosity,"  says  Mr.  George.  "  It 
seemed  to  me  probable  that  you  might  take  more  than  a 
common  interest  in  this  poor  creature,  because  Miss  Summer- 
son  had  taken  that  unfortunate  interest  in  him.  'Tis  my  case, 
sir,  I  assure  you." 

"  And  mine,  Mr.  George." 

The  trooper  looks  sideways  at  Allan's  sun-burnt  cheek  and 
bright  dark  eye,  rapidly  measures  his  height  and  build,  and 
seems  to  approve  of  him. 

"  Since  you  have  been  out,  sir,  I  have  been  thinking  that 
I  unquestionably  know  the  rooms  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
where  Bucket  took  the  lad,  according  to  his  account.  Though 
he  is  not  acquainted  with  the  name,  I  can  help  you  to  it.  It's 
Tulkinghorn.    That's  what  it  is." 

Allan  looks  at  him  inquiringly,  repeating  the  name. 

"Tulkinghorn.  That's  the  name,  sir.  I  know  the  man; 
and  know  him  to  have  been  in  communication  with  Bucket 
before,  respecting  a  deceased  person  who  had  given  him 
offence.    /  know  the  man,  sir.    To  my  sorrow." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


223 


Allan  naturally  asks  what  kind  of  man  he  is  ? 

"  What  kind  of  man  ?    Do  you  mean  to  look  at  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  know  that  much  of  him.  I  mean  to  deal  with. 
Generally,  what  kind  of  man  ?  " 

<•  Why,  then  I'll  tell  you,  sir,"  returns  the  trooper,  stopping 
short,  and  folding  his  arms  on  his  square  chest,  so  angrily, 
that  his  face  fires  and  flushes  all  over ;  "  he  is  a  confoundedly 
bad  kind  of  man.  He  is  a  slow-torturing  kind  of  man.  He 
is  no  more  like  flesh  and  blood,  than  a  rusty  old  carbine  is. 
He  is  a  kind  of  man  —  by  George  !  —  that  has  caused  me  more 
restlessness,  and  more  uneasiness,  and  more  dissatisfaction 
with  myself,  than  all  other  men  put  together.  That's  the 
kind  of  man  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  is  ! " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  says  Allan,  "  to  have  touched  so  sore  a  place." 

"  Sore  ? "  The  trooper  plants  his  legs  wider  apart,  wets 
the  palm  of  his  broad  right  hand,  and  lays  it  on  his  imaginary 
mustache.  "  It's  no  fault  of  yours,  sir;  but  you  shall  judge. 
He  has  got  a  power  over  me.  He  is  the  man  I  spoke  of  just 
now,  as  being  able  to  tumble  me  out  of  this  place  neck  and 
crop.  He  keeps  me  on  a  constant  see-saw.  He  won't  hold 
off,  and  he  won't  come  on.  If  I  have  a  payment  to  make  him, 
or  time  to  ask  him  for,  or  anything  to  go  to  him  about,  he 
don't  see  me,  don't  hear  me  —  passes  me  on  to  Melchisedech's 
in  Clifford's  Inn,  Melchisedech's  in  Clifford's  Inn  passes  me 
back  again  to  him  —  he  keeps  me  prowling  and  dangling  about 
him,  as  if  I  was  made  of  the  same  stone  as  himself.  Why 
I  spend  half  my  life  now,  pretty  well,  loitering  and  dodging 
about  his  door.  What  does  he  care  ?  Nothing.  Just  as 
much  as  the  rusty  old  carbine  I  have  compared  him  to.  He 
chafes  and  goads  me,  till  —  Bah!  nonsense  —  I  am  forgetting 
myself.  Mr.  Woodcourt ;  "  the  trooper  resumes  his  march ; 
"  all  I  say  is,  he  is  an  old  man ;  but  I  am  glad  I  shall  never 
have  the  chance  of  setting  spurs  to  my  horse,  and  riding  at 
him  in  a  fair  field.  For  if  I  had  that  chance,  in  one  of  the 
humors  he  drives  me  into  —  he'd  go  down,  sir!" 

Mr.  George  has  been  so  excited,  that  he  finds  it  necessary 
to  wipe  his  forehead  on  his  shirt-sleeve.  Even  while  he 
whistles  his  impetuosity  away  with  the  National  Anthem, 
some  involuntary  shakings  of  his  head  and  heavings  of  his 


224 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


chest  still  linger  behind ;  not  to  mention  an  occasional  hasty 
adjustment  with  both  hands  of  his  open  shirt-collar,  as  if  it 
were  scarcely  open  enough  to  prevent  his  being  troubled  by  a 
choking  sensation.  In  short,  Allan  Woodcourt  has  not  much 
doubt  about  the  going  down  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  on  the  field 
referred  to. 

Jo  and  his  conductor  presently  return,  and  Jo  is  assisted 
to  his  mattress  by  the  careful  Phil ;  to  whom,  after  due  ad- 
ministration of  medicine  by  his  own  hands,  Allan  confides 
all  needful  means  and  instructions.  The  morning  is  by  this 
time  getting  on  apace.  He  repairs  to  his  lodgings  to  dress 
and  breakfast ;  and  then,  without  seeking  rest,  goes  away  to 
Mr.  Jarndyce  to  communicate  his  discovery. 

With  him  Mr.  Jarndyce  returns  alone,  confidentially  telling 
him  that  there  ^re  reasons  for  keeping  this  matter  very  quiet 
indeed ;  and  showing  a  serious  interest  in  it.  To  Mr.  Jarn- 
dyce, Jo  repeats  in  substance  wrhat  he  said  in  the  morning ; 
without  any  material  variation.  Only,  that  cart  of  his  is 
heavier  to  draw,  and  draws  with  a  hollower  sound. 

"  Let  me  lay  here  quiet,  and  not  be  chivied  no  more," 
falters  Jo;  "and  be  so  kind  any  person  as  is  a  passin'  nigh 
where  I  used  fur  to  sweep,  as  jist  to  say  to  Mr.  Snagsby  that 
Jo,  wot  he  known  once,  is  a-moving  on  right  forards  with  his 
duty,  and  I'll  be  wery  thankful.  I'd  be  more  thankful  than 
I  am  aready,  if  it  wos  any  ways  possible  for  an  unfortnet  to 
be  it." 

He  makes  so  many  of  these  references  to  the  law-stationer 
in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two,  that  Allan,  after  conferring 
with  Mr.  Jarndyce,  good-naturedly  resolves  to  call  in  Cook's 
Court ;  the  rather,  as  the  cart  seems  to  be  breaking  down. 

To  Cook's  Court,  therefore,  he  repairs.  .  Mr.  Snagsby  is 
behind  his  counter  in  his  gray  coat  and  sleeves,  inspecting  an 
Indenture  of  several  skins  which  has  just  come  in  from  the 
engrosser's  ;  an  immense  desert  of  law-hand  and  parchment, 
with  here  and  there  a  resting-place  of  a  few  large  letters,  to 
break  the  awful  monotony,  and  save  the  traveller  from  despair. 
Mr.  Snagsby  puts  up  at  one  of  these  inky  wells,  and  greets  the 
stranger  with  his  cough  of  general  preparation  for  business. 

"  You  don't  remember  me,  Mr.  Snagsby  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


225 


The  stationer's  heart  begins  to  thump  heavily,  for  his  old 
apprehensions  have  never  abated.  It  is  as  much  as  he  can  do 
to  answer,  "No,  sir,  I  can't  say  I  do.  I  should  have  con- 
sidered—  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it  —  that  I  never 
saw  you  before,  sir." 

"  Twice  before,"  says  Allan  Woodcourt.  "  Once  at  a  poor 
bedside,  and  once  "  — 

"  It's  come  at  last !  "  thinks  the  afflicted  stationer,  as  rec- 
ollection breaks  upon  him.  u  It's  got  to  a  head  now,  and  is 
going  to  burst !  "  But,  he  has  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to 
conduct  his  visitor  into  the  little  counting-house,  and  to  shut 
the  door. 

"  Are  you  a  married  man,  sir  ?  99 

"  No,  I  am  not." 

"  Would  you  make  the  attempt,  though  single,"  says  Mr. 
Snagsby  in  a  melancholy  whisper,  "to  speak  as  low  as  you 
can  ?  For  my  little  woman  is  a-listening  somewheres,  or  I'll 
forfeit  the  business  and  five  hundred  pound  ! 99 

In  deep  dejection  Mr.  Snagsby  sits  down  on  his  stool,  with 
his  back  against  his  desk,  protesting,  — 

"  I  never  had  a  secret  of  my  own,  sir.  I  can't  charge  my 
memory  with  ever  having  once  attempted  to  deceive  my  little 
woman  on  my  own  account,  since  she  named  the  day.  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it,  sir.  Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon 
it,  I  couldn't  have  done  it,  I  durstn't  have  done  it.  Whereas, 
and  nevertheless,  I  find  myself  wrapped  round  with  secrecy 
and  mystery,  till  my  life  is  a  burden  to  me." 

His  visitor  professes  his  regret  to  hear  it,  and  asks  him 
does  he  remember  Jo?  Mr.  Snagsby  answers  with  a  sup- 
pressed groan,  0  don't  he  ! 

"  You  couldn't  name  an  individual  human  being  —  except 
myself  —  that  my  little  woman  is  more  set  and  determined 
against  than  Jo,"  says  Mr.  Snagsby. 

Allan  asks  why  ? 

"Why  ?  "  repeats  Mr.  Snagsby,  in  his  desperation  clutching 
at  the  clump  of  hair  at  the  back  of  his  bald- head,  "How 
should  /  know  why  ?  But  you  are  a  single  person,  sir,  and 
may  you  long  be  spared  to  ask  a  married  person  such  a 
question  !  " 
vol.  ir. 


226 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


With  this  beneficent  wish,  Mr.  Snagsby  coughs  a  cough  of 
dismal  resignation,  and  submits  himself  to  hear  what  the 
visitor  has  to  communicate. 

"  There  again  !  "  says  Mr.  Snagsby,  who,  between  the 
earnestness  of  his  feelings,  and  the  suppressed  tones  of  his 
voice,  is  discolored  in  the  face.  "At  it  again,  in  a  new 
direction  !  A  certain  person  charges  me,  in  the  solemnest 
way,  not  to  talk  of  Jo  to  any  one,  not  even  my  little  woman. 
Then  comes  another  certain  person,  in  the  person  of  yourself, 
and  charges  me,  in  an  equally  solemn  way,  not  to  mention  Jo 
to  that  other  certain  person  above  all  other  persons.  Why, 
this  is  a  private  asylum  !  Why,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point 
upon  it,  this  is  Bedlam,  sir  !  "  says  Mr.  Snagsby. 

But  it  is  better  than  he  expected,  after  all ;  being  no  ex- 
plosion of  the  mine  below  him,  or  deepening  of  the  pit  into 
which  he  has  fallen.  And  being  tender-hearted,  and  affected 
by  the  account  he  hears  of  Jo's  condition,  he  readily  engages 
to  "  look  round,"  as  early  in  the  evening  as  he  can  manage 
it  quietly.  He  looks  round  very  quietly,  when  the  evening 
comes ;  but  it  may  turn  out  that  Mrs.  Snagsby  is  as  quiet  a 
manager  as  he. 

Jo  is  very  glad  to  see  his  old  friend ;  and  says,  when  they 
are  left  alone,  that  he  takes  it  uncommon  kind  as  Mr. 
Snagsby  should  come  so  far  out  of  his  way  on  accounts  of 
sich  as  him.  Mr.  Snagsby,  touched  by  the  spectacle  before 
him  immediately  lays  upon  the  table  half  a  crown  :  that 
magic  balsam  of  his  for  all  kind  of  Wounds. 

"  And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  my  poor  lad  ?  "  inquires 
the  stationer,  writh  his  cough  of  sympathy. 

"I  am  in  luck,  Mr.  Snagsby,  T  am/'  returns  Jo,  "and 
don't  want  for  nothink.  I;m  more  cumfbler  nor  you  can't 
think.  Mr.  Snagsby  !  I'm  wery  sorry  that  I  done  it,  but  I 
didn't  go  fur  to  do  it,  sir." 

The  stationer  softly  lays  down  another  halfcrown,  and  asks 
him  what  it  is  that  he  is  sorry  for  having  done  ? 

"  Mr.  Snagsby,"  says  Jo,  "  I  went  and  giv  a  illness  to  the 
lady  as  wos  and  yit  as  warn't  the  t'other  lady,  and  none  of 
'em  never  says  nothink  to  me  for  having  done  it,  on  accounts 
of  their  being  ser  good  and  my  having  been  s'unfortnet. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


227 


The  lady  come  herself  and  see  me  yesday,  and  she  ses,  <Ah 
Jo  ! '  she  ses.  '  We  thought  we'd  lost  you,  Jo  ! '  she  ses. 
And  she  sits  down  a-smilin  so  quiet,  and  don't  pass  a  word 
nor  yit  a  look  upon  me  for  having  done  it,  she  don't,  and  I 
turns  agin  the  wall,  I  doos,  Mr.  Snagsby.  And  Mr.  Jarnders, 
I  see  him  a  forced  to  turn  away  his  own  self.  And  Mr. 
Woodcot,  he  come  for  to  giv  me  somethink  fur  to  ease  me, 
wot  he's  alius  a-doin  on  day  and  night,  and  wen  he  come  a- 
bendin  over  me  and  a-speakin  up  so  bold,  I  see  his  tears 
a-fallin,  Mr.  Snagsby." 

The  softened  stationer  deposits  another  halfcrown  on  the 
table.  Nothing  less  than  a  repetition  of  that  infallible 
remedy  will  relieve  his  feelings. 

"  Wot  I  wos  a-thinkin  on,  Mr.  Snagsby,"  proceeds  Jo, 
"  wos,  as  you  was  able  to  write  wery  large,  p'raps  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Jo,  please  God,"  returns  the  stationer. 

"  Uncommon  precious  large,  p'raps  ?  "  says  Jo,  with 
eagerness. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  boy." 

Jo  laughs  with  pleasure.  "  Wot  I  wos  a-thinkin  on  then, 
Mr.  Snagsby,  wos,  that  when  I  was  moved  on  as  fur  as  ever 
I  could  go  and  couldn't  be  moved  no  furder,  whether  you 
might  be  so  good  p'raps,  as  to  write  out,  wery  large  so  that 
any  one  could  see  it  anywheres,  as  that  I  wos  wery  truly 
hearty  sorry  that  I  done  it  and  that  I  never  went  fur  to  do  it ; 
and  that  though  I  didn't  know  nothink  at  all,  I  knowd  as  Mr. 
Woodcot  once  cried  over  it  and  wos  alius  grieved  over  it,  and 
that  I  hoped  as  he'd  be  able  to  forgive  me  in  his  mind.  If 
the  writin  could  be  made  to  say  it  wery  large,  he  might." 

"It  shall  say  it,  Jo.    Very  large." 

Jo  laughs  again.  "  Thankee,  Mr.  Snagsby.  It's  wery  kind 
of  you,  sir,  and  it  makes  me  more  cumf'bler  nor  I  was  afore." 

The  meek  little  stationer,  with  a  broken  and  unfinished 
cough,  slips  down  his  fourth  halfcrown  —  he  has  never  been 
so  close  to  a  case  requiring  so  many  —  and  is  fain  to  depart. 
And  Jo  and  he,  upon  this  little  earth,  shall  meet  no  more. 
No  more. 

For  the  cart  so  hard  to  draw,  is  near  its  journey's  end,  and 
drags  over  stony  ground.    All  round  the  clock,  it  labors  up 


228 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


the  broken  steeps,  shattered  and  worn.  Not  many  times  can 
the  sun  rise,  and  behold  it  still  upon  its  weary  road. 

Phil  Squod,  with  his  smoky  gunpowder  visage,  at  once  acts 
as  nurse  and  works  as  armorer  at  his  little  table  in  a  corner; 
often  looking  round,  and  saying  with  a  nod  of  his  green  baize 
cap,  and  an  encouraging  elevation  of  his  one  eyebrow,  "  Hold 
up,  my  boy  !  Hold  up  !  "  There,  too,  is  Mr.  Jarndyce  many 
a  time,  and  Allan  Woodcourt  almost  always ;  both  thinking, 
much,  how  strangely  Fate  has  entangled  this  rough  outcast  in 
the  web  of  very  different  lives.  There  too,  the  trooper  is  a 
frequent  visitor  ;  filling  the  doorway  with  his  athletic  figure, 
and,  from  his  superfluity  of  life  and  strength,  seeming  to  shed 
down  temporary  vigor  upon  Jo,  who  never  fails  to  speak  more 
robustly  in  answer  to  his  cheerful  words. 

Jo  is  in  a  sleep  or  in  a  stupor  to-day,  and  Allan  Woodcourt, 
newly  arrived,  stands  by  him,  looking  down  upon  his  wasted 
form.  After  a  while,  he  softly  seats  himself  upon  the  bedside 
with  his  face  towards  him  —  just  as  he  sat  in  the  law-writer's 
room  —  and  touches  his  chest  and  heart.  The  cart  had  very 
nearly  given  up,  but  labors  on  a  little  more. 

The  trooper  stands  in  the  doorway,  still  and  silent.  Phil 
has  stopped  in  a  low  clinking  noise,  with  his  little  hammer  in 
his  hand.  Mr.  Woodcourt  looks  round  with  that  grave  pro- 
fessional interest  and  attention  on  his  face,  and,  glancing  sig- 
nificantly at  the  trooper,  signs  to  Phil  to  carry  his  table  out. 
When  the  little  hammer  is  next  used,  there  will  be  a  speck  of 
rust  upon  it. 

"  Well,  Jo  !    What  is  the  matter  ?    Don't  be  frightened." 

"I  thought,"  says  Jo,  who  has  started,  and  is  looking  round, 
"  I  thought  I  was  in  Tom-all- Alone's  agin.  Ain't  there  nobody 
here  but  you,  Mr.  Woodcot  ?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"And  I  ain't  took  back  to  Tom-all- Alone's.    Am  I,  sir?" 

"  No."    Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  "  I'm  wery  thankful." 

After  watching  him  closely  a  little  while,  Allan  puts  his 
mouth  very  near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a  low,  distinct 
voice,  — » 

"  Jo  !    Did  you  ever  know  a  prayer  ?  " 
"Never  knowd  nothink,  sir." 


I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


229 


u  Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos  a  prayin 
wunst  at  Mr.  Snagsby's  and  I  heerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as  if 
he  wos  a-speakin'  to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a  lot, 
but  /  couldn't  make  out  nothink  on  it.  Different  times,  there 
was  other  genlmen  come  down  Tom-all- Alone's  a-prayin,  but 
they  all  mostly  sed  as  the  t'other  wuns  prayed  wrrong,  and  all 
mostly  sounded  to  be  a-talking  to  theirselves,  or  a  passing 
blame  on  the  t'others,  and  not  a  talkin  to  us.  We  never 
knowd  nothink.    7"  never  knowd  what  it  wos  all  about." 

It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  say  this ;  and  few  but  an 
experienced  and  attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing, 
understand  him.  After  a  short  relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor, 
he  makes,  of  a  sudden,  a  strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

"  Stay,  Jo  !    What  now  ?  " 

"  It's  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin  ground,  sir," 
he  returns  with  a  wild  look. 

"Lie  down,  and  tell  me.    What  burying  ground,  Jo  ! " 

"  Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me,  wery  good 
to  me  indeed,  he  wros.  It's  time  fur  me  to  go  down  to  that 
there  berryin  ground  sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him. 
I  wants  to  go  there  and  be  berried.  He  used  fur  to  say  to 
me,  6 1  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,'  he  ses.  I  wants  to  tell 
him  that  I  am  as  poor  as  him  now,  and  have  come  there  to  be 
laid  along  with  him." 

"  By  and  by,  Jo.    By  and  by." 

"  Ah !  P'raps  they  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  wos  to  go  myself. 
But  will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  laid 
along  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  will,  indeed." 

"  Thank'ee,  sir.  Thank'ee,  sir.  They'll  have  to  get  the 
key  of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in,  for  it's  alius 
locked.  And  there's  a  step  there,  as  I  used  fur  to  clean  with 
my  broom.  —  It's  turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is  there  any  light  a 
comin  ?  " 

"  It  is  coming  fast,  Jo." 

Fast.    The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged 
road  is  very  near  its  end. 
"  Jo,  my  poor  fellow  !  " 


230 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


a  I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I'm  a-gropin  —  a-gropin 
—  let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand." 
"  Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  say  anythink  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I  knows  it's  good." 
"  Our  Father." 

"  Our  Father !  —  yes,  that's  wery  good,  sir." 

"  Which  art  in  Heaven." 

"  Art  in  Heaven  —  is  the  light  a-comin,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  is  close  at  hand.    Hallowed  be  thy  name  !  " 

"  Hallowed  be  —  thy  "  — 

The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted  way.    Dead ! 

Dead,  your  Majesty.  Dead,  my  lords  and  gentlemen. 
Dead,  Eight  Reverends  and  Wrong  Reverends  of  every  order. 
Dead,  men  and  women,  born  with  Heavenly  compassion,  in 
your  hearts.    And  dying  thus  around  us  every  day. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


231 


CHAPTEB  XVII. 

CLOSING  IN. 

The  place  in  Lincolnshire  has  shut  its  many  eyes  again, 
and  the  house  in  town  is  awake.  In  Lincolnshire,  the  Dead- 
locks of  the  past  doze  in  their  picture-frames,  and  the  low 
wind  murmurs  through  the  long  drawing-room  as  if  they  were 
breathing  pretty  regularly.  In  town,  the  Dedlocks  of  the 
present  rattle  in  their  fire-eyed  carriages  through  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  and  the  Dedlock  Mercuries,  with  ashes  (or  hair- 
powder)  on  their  heads,  symptomatic  of  their  great  humility, 
loll  away  the  drowsy  mornings  in  the  little  windows  of  the 
hall.  The  fashionable  world — tremendous  orb,  nearly  five 
miles  round  —  is  in  full  swing,  and  the  solar  system  works 
respectfully  at  its  appointed  distances. 

Where  the  throng  is  thickest,  where  the  lights  are  brightest, 
where  all  the  senses  are  ministered  to  with  the  greatest 
delicacy  and  refinement,  Lady  Dedlock  is.  From  the  shining 
heights  she  has  scaled  and  taken,  she  is  never  absent.  Though 
the  belief  she  of  old  reposed  in  herself,  as  one  able  to  reserve 
whatsoever  she  would  under  her  mantle  of  pride,  is  beaten 
down ;  though  she  has  no  assurance  that  what  she  is  to  those 
around  her,  she  will  remain  another  day ;  it  is  not  in  her 
nature,  when  envious  eyes  are  looking  on,  to  yield  or  to  droop. 
They  say  of  her,  that  she  has  lately  grown  more  handsome 
and  more  haughty.  The  debilitated  cousin  says  of  her  that 
she's  beauty  nough  —  tsetup  Shopofwomen  —  but  rather 
larming  kind  —  remindingmanfact  —  inconvenient  woman  — 
who  will  getoutofbedandbawthstablishment  —  Shakspeare. 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  says  nothing ;  looks  nothing.  Now,  as 
heretofore,  he  is  to  be  found  in  doorways  of  rooms,  with  his 
limp  white  cravat  loosely  twisted  into  its  old-fashioned  tie, 
receiving  patronage  from  the  Peerage  and  making  no  sign. 


232 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Of  all  men  he  is  still  the  last  who  might  be  supposed  to  have 
any  influence  upon  my  Lady.  Of  all  women  she  is  still  the 
last  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  any  dread  of  him. 

One  thing  has  been  much  on  her  mind  since  their  late 
interview  in  his  turret-room  at  Chesney  Wold.  She  is  now 
decided,  and  prepared  to  throw  it  off. 

It  is  morning  in  the  great  world;  afternoon  according  to 
the  little  sun.  The  Mercuries,  exhausted  by  looking  out  of 
window,  are  reposing  in  the  hall ;  and  hang  their  heavy 
heads,  the  gorgeous  creatures,  like  overblown  sunflowers.  Like 
them,  too,  they  seem  to  run  to  a  deal  of  seed  in  their  tags  and 
trimmings.  Sir  Leicester,  in  the  library,  has  fallen  asleep  for 
the  good  of  the  country,  over  the  report  of  a  Parliamentary 
committee.  My  Lady  sits  in  the  room  in  which  she  gave 
audience  to  the  young  man  of  the  name  of  Guppy.  Rosa  is 
with  her,  and  has  been  writing  for  her  and  reading  to  her. 
Rosa  is  now  at  work  upon  embroidery,  or  some  such  pretty 
thing ;  and  as  she  bends  her  head  over  it,  my  Lady  watches 
her  in  silence.    Not  for  the  first  time  to-day. 

"Rosa." 

The  pretty  village  face  looks  brightly  up.    TJien,  seeing 
how  serious  my  Lady  is,  looks  puzzled  and  surprised. 
"  See  to  the  door.    Is  it  shut  ?  " 

Yes.  She  goes  to  it  and  returns,  and  looks  yet  more 
surprised. 

"  I  am  about  to  place  confidence  in  you,  child,  for  I  know  I 
may  trust  your  attachment,  if  not  your  judgment.  In  what 
I  am  going  to  do,  I  will  not  disguise  myself  to  you  at  least. 
But  I  confide  in  you.  Say  nothing  to  any  one  of  what  passes 
between  us." 

The  timid  little  beauty  promises  in  all  earnestness  to  be 
trustworthy. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Lady  Dedlock  asks  her,  signing  to  her  to 
bring  her  chair  nearer ;  "  do  you  know,  Rosa,  that  I  am  differ- 
ent to  you  from  what  I  am  to  any  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lady.  Much  kinder.  But  then  I  often  think  I 
know  you  as  you  really  are." 


"  You  often  think  you  know  me  as  I  really  am  ?  Poor 
child,  poor  child ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


233 


She  says  it  with  a  kind  of  scorn  —  though  not  of  Kosa  — 
and  sits  brooding,  looking  dreamily  at  her. 

"Do  you  think,  Rosa,  you  are  any  relief  or  comfort  to  me  ? 
Do  you  suppose  your  being  young  and  natural,  and  fond  of 
me  and  grateful  to  me,  makes  it  any  pleasure  to  me  to  have 
you  near  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  Lady ;  I  can  scarcely  hope  so.  But  with 
all  my  heart,  I  wish  it  was  so." 

"  It  is  so,  little  one." 

The  pretty  face  is  checked  in  its  flush  of  pleasure,  by  the 
dark  expression  on  the  handsome  face  before  it.  It  looks 
timidly  for  an  explanation. 

"  And  if  I  were  to  say  to-day,  Go !  Leave  me  !  I  should 
say  what  would  give  me  great  pain  and  disquiet,  child,  and 
what  would  leave  me  very  solitary." 

"  My  Lady  !    Have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

"In  nothing.    Come  here." 

Rosa  bends  down  on  the  footstool  at  my  Lady's  feet.  My 
Lady,  with  that  motherly  touch  of  the  famous  Ironmaster 
night,  lays  her  hand  upon  her  dark  hair,  and  gently  keeps  it 
there. 

"  I  told  you,  Rosa,  that  I  wished  you  to  be  happy,  and  that 
I  would  make  you  so  if  I  could  make  anybody  happy  on  this 
earth.  I  cannot.  There  are  reasons  now  known  to  me,  reasons 
in  which  you  have  no  part,  rendering  it  far  better  for  you  that 
you  should  not  remain  here.  You  must  not  remain  here.  I 
have  determined  that  you  shall  not.  I  have  written  to  the 
father  of  your  lover,  and  he  will  be  here  to-day.  All  this  I 
have  done  for  your  sake." 

The  weeping  girl  covers  her  hand  with  kisses,  and  says  what 
shall  she  do,  what  shall  she  do,  when  they  are  separated  !  Her 
mistress  kisses  her  on  the  cheek,  and  makes  no  other  answer. 

"Now,  be  happy,  child,  under  better  circumstances.  Be 
beloved  and  happy  !  " 

"Ah,  my  Lady,  I  have  sometimes  thought  —  forgive  my 
being  so  free  —  that  you  are  not  happy." 

"I !" 

"Will  you  be  more  so,  when  you  have  sent  me  away? 
Pray,  pray,  think  again.    Let  me  stay  a  little  while  ! " 


234 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  I  have  said,  my  child,  that  what  I  do,  I  do  for  your  sake, 
not  my  own.  It  is  done.  What  I  am  towards  you,  Rosa,  is 
what  I  am  now  —  not  what  I  shall  be  a  little  while  hence. 
Remember  this,  and  keep  my  confidence.  Do  so  much  for 
my  sake,  and  thus  all  ends  between  us  ! " 

She  detaches  herself  from  her  simple-hearted  companion, 
and  leaves  the  room.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  next 
appears  upon  the  staircase,  she  is  in  her  haughtiest  and  cold- 
est state.  As  indifferent  as  if  all  passion,  feeling,  and  inter- 
est, had  been  worn  out  in  the  earlier  ages  of  the  world,  and 
had  perished  from  its  surface  with  its  other  departed  monsters. 

Mercury  has  announced  Mr.  Rouncewell,  which  is  the  cause 
of  her  appearance.  Mr.  Rouncewell  is  not  in  the  library  ;  but 
she  repairs  to  the  library.  Sir  Leicester  is  there,  and  she 
wishes  to  speak  to  him  first. 

"  Sir  Leicester,  I  am  desirous  —  but  you  are  engaged." 

0  dear  no !    Not  at  all.    Only  Mr.  Tulkinghorn. 

Always  at  hand.  Haunting  every  place.  No  relief  or 
security  from  him  for  a  moment. 

"  I.  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Dedlock.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
retire  ?  " 

With  a  look  that  plainly  says,  "You  know  you  have  the 
power  to  remain  if  you  will,"  she  tells  him  it  is  not  necessary, 
and  moves  towards  a  chair.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  brings  it  a  little 
forward  for  her  with  his  clumsy  bow,  and  retires  into  a  window 
opposite.  Interposed  between  her  and  the  fading  light  of  day 
in  the  now  quiet  street,  his  shadow  falls  upon  her,  and  he 
darkens  all  before  her.    Even  so  does  he  darken  her  life. 

It  is  a  dull  street  under  the  best  conditions ;  where  the  two 
long  rows  of  houses  stare  at  each  other  with  that  severity,  that 
half  a  dozen  of  its  greatest  mansions  seem  to  have  been  slowly 
stared  into  stone,  rather  than  originally  built  in  that  material. 
It  is  a  street  of  such  dismal  grandeur,  so  determined  not  to 
condescend  to  liveliness,  that  the  doors  and  windows  hold  a 
gloomy  state  of  their  own  in  black  paint  and  dust,  and  the 
echoing  mews  behind  have  a  dry  and  massive  appearance,  as 
if  they  were  reserved  to  stable  the  stone  chargers  of  noble 
statues.  Complicated  garnish  of  iron-work  entwines  itself 
over  the  flights  of  steps  in  this  awful  street ;  and  from  these 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


235 


petrified  bowers,  extinguishers  for  obsolete  flambeaux  gasp  at 
the  upstart  gas.  Here  and  there  a  weak  little  iron  hoop, 
through  which  bold  boys  aspire  to  throw  their  friends'  caps 
(its  only  present  use),  retains  its  place  among  the  rusty  foli- 
age, sacred  to  the  memory  of  departed  oil.  Nay,  even  oil  itself, 
yet  lingering  at  long  intervals  in  a  little  absurd  glass  pot,  with 
a  knob  in  the  bottom  like  an  oyster,  blinks  and  sulks  at  newer 
lights  every  night,  like  its  high  and  dry  master  in  the  House 
of  Lords. 

Therefore  there  is  not  much  that  Lady  Dedlock,  seated  in 
her  chair,  could  wish  to  see  through  the  window  in  which  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn  stands.  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  she  sends  a  look 
in  that  direction,  as  if  it  were  her  heart's  desire  to  have  that 
figure  removed  out  of  the  way. 

Sir  Leicester  begs  his  Lady's  pardon.  She  was  about  to 
say? 

"Only  that  Mr.  Eouncewell  is  here  (he  has  called  by  my 
appointment),  and  that  we  had  better  make  an  end  of  the 
question  of  that  girl.    I  am  tired  to  death  of  the  matter." 

"  What  can  I  do  —  to  —  assist  ?  "  demands  Sir  Leicester,  in 
some  considerable  doubt. 

"Let  us  see  him  here,  and  have  done  with  it.  Will  you  tell 
them  to  send  him  up." 

"Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  be  so  good  as  to  ring.  Thank  you. 
Request,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  to  Mercury,  not  immediately 
remembering  the  business  term,  "  request  the  iron  gentleman 
to  walk  this  way." 

Mercury  departs  in  search  of  the  iron  gentleman,  finds,  and 
produces  him.  Sir  Leicester  receives  that  ferruginous  person, 
graciously. 

"I  hope  you  are  well,  Mr.  Eouncewell.  Be  seated.  (My 
solicitor,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.)  My  Lady  was  desirous,  Mr. 
Eouncewell,"  Sir  Leicester  skilfully  transfers  him  with  a 
solemn  wave  of  his  hand,  "  was  desirous  to  speak  with  you. 
Hem  ! " 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy,"  returns  the  iron  gentleman,  "  to 
give  my  best  attention  to  anything  Lady  Dedlock  does  me  the 
honor  to  say." 

As  he  turns  towards  her,  he  finds  that  the  impression  she 


236 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


makes  upon  him  is  less  agreeable  than  on  the  former  occasion. 
A  distant  supercilious  air  makes  a  cold  atmosphere  about  her ; 
and  there  is  nothing  in  her  bearing,  as  there  was  before,  to 
encourage  openness. 

"Pray,  sir,"  says  Lady  Dedlock,  listlessly,  "may  I  be  allowed 
to  inquire  whether  anything  has  passed  between  you  and  your 
son,  respecting  your  son's  fancy  ?  " 

It  is  almost  too  troublesome  to  her  languid  eyes  to  bestow  a 
look  upon  him,  as  she  asks  this  question. 

"  If  my  memory  serves  me,  Lady  Dedlock,  I  said,  when  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before,  that  I  should  seriously 
advise  my  son  to  conquer  that  —  fancy."  The  ironmaster 
repeats  her  expression  with  a  little  emphasis. 

"  And  did  you  ?  " 

"  0  !  of  course  I  did." 

Sir  Leicester  gives  a  nod,  approving  and  confirmatory.  Very 
proper.  The  iron  gentleman  having  said  that  he  would  do  it, 
was  bound  to  do  it.  No  difference  in  this  respect  between  the 
base  metals  and  the  precious.    Highly  proper. 

"  And  pray  has  he  done  so  ?  " 

"  Really,  Lady  Dedlock,  I  cannot  make  you  a  definite  reply. 
I  fear  not.  Probably  not  yet.  In  our  condition  of  life,  we 
sometimes  couple  an  intention  with  our  —  our  fancies,  which 
renders  them  not  altogether  easy  to  throw  off.  I  think  it  is 
rather  our  way  to  be  in  earnest." 

Sir  Leicester  has  a  misgiving  that  there  may  be  a  hidden 
Wat  Tylerish  meaning  in  this  expression,  and  fumes  a  little. 
Mr.  Rouncewell  is  perfectly  good-humored  and  polite;  but, 
within  such  limits,  evidently  adapts  his  tone  to  his  reception. 

"  Because,"  proceeds  my  Lady,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of 
the  subject  —  which  is  tiresome  to  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  also  of  what  Sir  Leicester  said  upon  it,  in  which  I 
quite  concur ; "  Sir  Leicester  flattered :  "  and  if  you  cannot 
give  us  the  assurance  that  this  fancy  is  at  an  end,  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  girl  had  better  leave  me." 

"  I  can  give  no  such  assurance,  Lady  Dedlock.  Nothing  of 
the  kind." 

"  Then  she  had  better  go." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


237 


"  Excuse  me,  my  Lady,"  Sir  Leicester  considerately  inter- 
poses, "but  perhaps  this  may  be  doing  an  injury  to  the  young 
woman,  which  she  has  not  merited.  Here  is  a  young  woman," 
says  Sir  Leicester,  magnificently  laying  out  the  matter  with 
his  right  hand,  like  a  service  of  plate,  "  whose  good-fortune 
it  is  to  have  attracted  the  notice  and  favor  of  an  eminent  lady, 
and  to  live,  under  the  protection  of  that  eminent  lady,  sur- 
rounded by  the  various  advantages  which  such  a  position 
confers,  and  which  are  unquestionably  very  great  —  I  believe 
unquestionably  very  great,  sir  —  for  a  young  woman  in  that 
station  of  life.  The  question  then  arises,  should  that  young 
woman  be  deprived  of  these  many  advantages  and  that  good- 
fortune,  simply  because  she  has ; 99  Sir  Leicester,  with  an 
apologetic  but  dignified  inclination  of  his  head  towards  the 
ironmaster,  winds  up  his  sentence ;  "  has  attracted  the  notice 
of  Mr.  Rouncewell's  son  ?  Now,  has  she  deserved  this  punish- 
ment ?  Is  this  just  towards  her  ?  Is  this  our  previous 
understanding  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposes  Mr.  Rouncewell's  son's 
father.  "  Sir  Leicester,  will  you  allow  me  ?  I  think  I  may 
shorten  the  subject.  Pray  dismiss  that  from  your  consider- 
a.tion.  If  you  remember  anything  so  unimportant  —  which 
is  not  to  be  expected  —  you  would  recollect  that  my  first 
thought  in  the  affair  was  directly  opposed  to  her  remaining 
here." 

Dismiss  the  Dedlock  patronage  from  consideration?  0! 
Sir  Leicester  is  bound  to  believe  a  pair  of  ears  that  have  been 
handed  down  to  him  through  such  a  family,  or  he  really 
might  have  mistrusted  their  report  of  the  iron  gentleman's 
observations. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  observes  my  Lady,  in  her  coldest 
manner,  before  he  can  do  anything  but  breathe  amazedly, 
"to  enter  into  these  matters  on  either  side.  The  girl  is  a 
very  good  girl ;  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  say  against  her ; 
but  she  is  so  far  insensible  to  her  many  advantages  and  her 
good-fortune,  that  she  is  in  love  —  or  supposes  she  is,  poor 
little  fool  —  and  unable  to  appreciate  them." 

Sir  Leicester  begs  to  observe,  that  wholly  alters  the  case. 
He  might  have  been  sure  that  my  Lady  had  the  best  grounds 


238 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


and  reasons  in  support  of  her  view.  He  entirely  agrees  with 
my  Lady.    The  young  woman  had  better  go. 

"As  Sir  Leicester  observed,  Mr.  Rouncewell,  on  the  last 
occasion,  when  we  were  fatigued  by  this  business,"  Lady 
Dedlock  languidly  proceeds,  "we  cannot  make  conditions 
with  you.  Without  conditions,  and  under  present  circum- 
stances, the  girl  is  quite  misplaced  here,  and  had  better  go. 
I  have  told  her  so.  Would  you  wish  to  have  sent  her  back 
to  the  village,  or  would  you  like  to  take  her  with  you,  or  what 
would  you  prefer  ?  " 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  if  I  may  speak  plainly  "  — 

"  By  all  means." 

"  —  I  should  prefer  the  course  which  will  the  soonest  relieve 
you  of  the  encumbrance,  and  remove  her  from  her  present 
position." 

"And  to  speak  as  plainly,"  she  returns,  with  the  same 
studied  carelessness,  "  so  should  I.  Do  I  understand  that  you 
will  take  her  with  you  ?  " 

The  iron  gentleman  makes  an  iron  bow. 

"  Sir  Leicester,  will  you  ring  ?  "  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  steps 
forward  from  his  window  and  pulls  the  bell.  "I  had  for- 
gotten you.  Thank  you."  He  makes  his  usual  bow,  and 
goes  quietly  back  again.  Mercury,  swift  responsive,  appears, 
receives  instructions  whom  to  produce,  skims  away,  produces 
the  aforesaid,  and  departs. 

Rosa  has  been  crying,  and  is  yet  in  distress.  On  her  com- 
ing in,  the  ironmaster  leaves  his  chair,  takes  her  arm  in  his, 
and  remains  with  her  near  the  door  ready  to  depart. 

"  You  are  taken  charge  of,  you  see,"  says  my  Lady,  in  her 
weary  manner,  "  and  are  going  away  well  protected.  I  have 
mentioned  that  you  are  a  very  good  girl,  and  you  have  noth- 
ing to  cry  for." 

"  She  seems  after  all,"  observes  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  loitering 
a  little  forward  with  his  hands  behind  him,  "  as  if  she  were 
crying  at  going  away." 

"  Why,  she  is  not  well  bred,  you  see,"  returns  Mr. 
Eouncewell  with  some  quickness  in  his  manner,  as  if  he 
were  glad  to  have  the  lawyer  to  retort  upon :  "  and  she 
is  an  inexperienced  little  thing,  and  knows  no  better.  If 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


239 


she  had  remained  here,  sir,  she  would  have  improved,  no 
doubt." 

"  No  doubt/'  is  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  composed  reply. 

Kosa  sobs  out  that  she  is  very  sorry  to  leave  my  Lady,  and 
that  she  was  happy  at  Chesney  Wold,  and  has  been  happy 
with  my  Lady,  and  that  she  thanks  my  Lady  over  and  over 
again.  "  Out,  you  silly  little  puss  ! "  says  the  ironmaster, 
checking  her  in  a  low  voice,  though  not  angrily;  "have  a 
spirit,  if  you're  fond  of  Wat ! "  My  Lady  merely  waves  her 
off  with  indifference,  saying,  "  There,  there,  child !  You  are 
a  good  girl.  Go  away  !  "  Sir  Leicester  has  magnificently 
disengaged  himself  from  the  subject,  and  retired  into  the 
sanctuary  of  his  blue  coat.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  an  indistinct 
form  against  the  dark  street  now  dotted  with  lamps,  looms  in 
my  Lady's  view,  bigger  and  blacker  than  before. 

"  Sir  Leicester  and  Lady  Dedlock,"  says  Mr.  Eouncewell, 
after  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,' "  I  beg  to  take  my  leave 
with  an  apology  for  having  again  troubled  you,  though  not  of 
my  own  act,  on  this  tiresome  subject.  I  can  very  well  under- 
stand, I  assure  you,  how  tiresome  so  small  a  matter  must  have 
become  to  Lady  Dedlock.  If  I  am  doubtful  of  my  dealing 
with  it,  it  is  only  because  I  did  not  at  first  quietly  exert  my 
influence  to  take  my  young  friend  here  away,  without  troubling 
you  at  all.  But  it  appeared  to  me  —  I  dare  say  magnifying 
the  importance  of  the  thing  —  that  it  was  respectful  to  explain 
to  you  how  the  matter  stood,  and  candid  to  consult  your 
wishes  and  convenience.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  want  of 
acquaintance  with  the  polite  world." 

Sir  Leicester  considers  himself  evoked  out  of  the  sanctuary 
by  these  remarks.  "  Mr.  Eouncewell,"  he  returns,  "  do  not 
mention  it.  Justifications  are  unnecessary,  I  hope,  on  either 
side." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Sir  Leicester;  and  if  I  may,  by  way 
of  a  last  word,  revert  to  what  I  said  before  of  my  mother's 
long  connection  with  the  family,  and  the  worth  it  bespeaks  on 
both  sides,  I  would  point  out  this  little  instance  here  on  my 
arm,  who  shows  herself  so  affectionate  and  faithful  in  parting, 
and  in  whom  my  mother,  I  dare  say,  has  done  something  to 
awaken  such  feelings  —  though  of  course  Lady  Dedlock,  by 


240 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


her  heartfelt  interest  and  her  genial  condescension,  has  done 
much  more." 

If  he  means  this  ironically,  it  may  be  truer  than  he  thinks. 
He  points  it,  however,  by  no  deviation  from  his  straight- 
forward manner  of  speech,  though  in  saying  it  he  turns 
towards  that  part  of  the  dim  room  where  my  Lady  sits.  Sir 
Leicester  stands  to  return  his  parting  salutation,  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn  again  rings.  Mercury  takes  another  flight,  and  Mr. 
Eouncewell  and  Eosa  leave  the  house. 

Then  lights  are  brought  in,  discovering  Mr.  Tulkinghorn 
still  standing  in  his  window  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and 
my  Lady  still  sitting  with  his  figure  before  her,  closing  up 
her  view  of  the  night  as  well  as  of  the  day.  She  is  very  pale. 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn  observing  it  as  she  rises  to  retire,  thinks, 
"  Well,  she  may  be  !  The  power  of  this  woman  is  astonishing. 
She  has  been  acting  a  part  the  whole  time."  But  he  can  act 
a  part  too  —  his  one  unchanging  character  —  and  as  he  holds 
the  door  open  for  this  woman,  fifty  pairs  of  eyes,  each  fifty 
times  sharper  than  Sir  Leicester's  pair,  should  find  no  flaw  in 
him. 

Lady  Dedlock  dines  alone  in  her  own  room  to-day.  Sir 
Leicester  is  whipped  in  to  the  rescue  of  the  Doodle  Party 
and  the  discomfiture  of  the  Coodle  Faction.  Lady  Dedlock 
asks,  on  sitting  down  to  dinner,  still  deadly  pale  (and  quite 
an  illustration  of  the  debilitated  cousin's  text),  whether  he  is 
gone  out  ?  Yes.  Whether  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  is  gone  yet  ? 
No.  Presently  she  asks  again,  is  he  gone  yet  ?  No.  What  is 
he  doing  ?  Mercury  thinks  he  is  writing  letters  in  the 
library.  Would  my  Lady  wish  to  see  him  ?  Anything  but 
that. 

But  he  wishes  to  see  my  Lady.  Within  a  few  more  minutes 
he  is  reported  as  sending  his  respects,  and  could  my  Lady 
please  to  receive  him  for  a  word  or  two  after  her  dinner? 
My  Lady  will  receive  him  now.  He  comes  now  apologizing 
for  intruding,  even  by  her  permission,  while  she  is  at  table. 
When  they  are  alone,  my  Lady  waves  her  hand  to  dispense 
with  such  mockeries. 

"  What  do  you  want,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lady  Dedlock,"  says  the  lawyer,  taking  a  chair  at 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


241 


a  little  distance  from  her,  and  slowly  rubbing  his  rusty  legs 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  up  and  down ;  "  I  am  rather 
surprised  by  the  course  you  have  taken." 
"  Indeed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  decidedly.  I  was  not  prepared  for  it.  I  consider 
it  a  departure  from  our  agreement  and  your  promise.  It  puts 
us  in  a  new  position,  Lady  Dedlock.  I  feel  myself  under  the 
necessity  of  saying  that  I  don't  approve  of  it." 

He  stops  in  his  rubbing,  and  looks  at  her,  with  his  hands 
on  his  knees.  Imperturbable  and  unchangeable  as  he  is,  there 
is  still  an  indefinable  freedom  in  his  manner,  which  is  new, 
and  which  does  not  escape  this  woman's  observation. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  Oh  yes  you  do,  I  think.  I  think  you  do.  Come,  come, 
Lady  Dedlock,  we  must  not  fence  and  parry  now.  You  know 
you  like  this  girl." 

"  Well,  sir  ?  " 

"  And  you  know  —  and  I  know  —  that  you  have  not  sent 
her  away  for  the  reasons  you  have  assigned,  but  for  the 
purpose  of  separating  her  as  much  as  possible  from  —  excuse 
my  mentioning  it  as  a  matter  of  business  —  any  reproach  and 
exposure  that  impend  over  yourself." 

"Well,  sir?" 

"  Well,  Lady  Dedlock,"  returns  the  lawyer,  crossing  his 
legs,  and  nursing  the  uppermost  knee,  "  I  object  to  that,  I 
consider  that  a  dangerous  proceeding.  I  know  it  to  be  unne- 
cessary, and  calculated  to  awaken  speculation,  doubt,  rumor, 
I  don't  know  what,  in  the  house.  Besides,  it  is  a  violation 
of  our  agreement.  You  were  to  be  exactly  what  you  were 
before.  Whereas,  it  must  be  evident  to  yourself,  as  it  is  to 
me,  that  you  have  been  this  evening  very  different  from 
what  you  were  before.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  Lady  Dedlock, 
transparently  so  !  " 

"If,  sir"  she  begins,  "in  my  knowledge  of  my  secret"  — 
But  he  interrupts  her. 

"  Now,  Lady  Dedlock,  this  is  a  matter  of  business,  and  in 
a  matter  of  business  the  ground  cannot  be  kept  too  clear. 
It  is  no  longer  your  secret.  Excuse  me.  That  is  just  the 
mistake.    It  is  my  secret,  in  trust  for  Sir  Leicester  and  the 

VOL.  II. 


242 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


family.  If  it  were  your  secret,  Lady  Dedlock,  we  should  not 
be  here,  holding  this  conversation." 

"  That  is  very  true.  If,  in  my  knowledge  of  the  secret,  I 
do  what  I  can  to  spare  an  innocent  girl  (especially,  remem- 
bering your  own  reference  to  her  when  you  told  my  story  to 
the  assembled  guests  at  Chesney  Wold)  from  the  taint  of  my 
impending  shame,  I  act  upon  a  resolution  I  have  taken. 
Nothing  in  the  world,  and  no  one  in  the  world,  could  shake 
it,  or  could  move  me.'7  This  she  says  with  great  deliberation 
and  distinctness,  and  with  no  more  outward  passion  than 
himself.  As  for  him,  he  methodically  discusses  his  matter  of 
business,  as  if  she  were  any  insensible  instrument  used  in 
business. 

"  Really  ?  Then  you  see,  Lady  Dedlock,"  he  returns,  "you 
are  not  to  be  trusted.  You  have  put  the  case  in  a  perfectly 
plain  way,  and  according  to  the  literal  fact ;  and,  that  being 
the  case,  you  are  not  to  be  trusted." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  remember  that  I  expressed  some  anxiety 
on  this  same  point,  Avhen  we  spoke  at  night  at  Chesney 
Wold  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  coolly  getting  up  and 
standing  on  the  hearth.  "Yes.  I  recollect,  Lady  Dedlock, 
that  you  certainly  referred  to  the  girl ;  but  that  was  before  we 
came  to  our  arrangement,  and  both  the  letter  and  the  spirit  of 
our  arrangement  altogether  precluded  any  action  on  your 
part,  founded  upon  my  discovery.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  that.  As  to  sparing  the  girl,  of  what  importance  or 
value  is  she  ?  Spare  !  Lady  Dedlock,  here  is  a  family  name 
compromised.  One  might  have  supposed  that  the  course  was 
straight  on  —  over  everything,  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  regardless  of  all  considerations  in  the  way,  sparing 
nothing,  treading  everything  under  foot." 

She  has  been  looking  at  the  table.  She  lifts  up  her  eyes,  and 
looks  at  him.  There  is  a  stern  expression  on  her  face,  and  a 
part  of  her  lower  lip  is  compressed  under  her  teeth.  "This 
woman  understands  me,"  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  thinks,  as  she  lets 
her  glance  fall  again.  "  She  cannot  be  spared.  Why  should 
she  spare  others  ?  " 

For  a  little  while  they  are  silent.    Lady  Dedlock  has  eaten 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


243 


no  dinner,  but  has  twice  or  thrice  poured  out  water  with  a 
steady  hand,  and  drunk  it.  She  rises  from  table,  takes  a 
lounging-chair,  and  reclines  in  it,  shading  her  face  There  is 
nothing  in  her  manner  to  express  weakness  or  excite  compas- 
sion. It  is  thoughtful,  gloomy,  concentrated.  "This  woman/' 
thinks  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  standing  on  the  hearth,  again  a  dark 
object,  closing  up  her  view,  "is  a  study." 

He  studies  her  at  his  leisure,  not  speaking  for  a  time.  She, 
too,  studies  something  at  her  leisure.  She  is  not  the  first  to 
speak  ;  appearing  indeed  so  unlikely  to  be  so,  though  he  stood 
there  until  midnight,  that  even  he  is  driven  upon  breaking 
silence. 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  the  most  disagreeable  part  of  this  business 
interview  remains ;  but  it  is  business.  Our  agreement  is 
broken.  A  lady  of  your  sense  and  strength  of  character  will 
be  prepared  for  my  now  declaring  it  void,  and  taking  my  own 
course." 

"  I  am  quite  prepared." 

Mr.  Tulkinghorn  inclines  his  head.  "  That  is  all  I  have  to 
trouble  you  with,  Lady  Dedlock." 

She  stops  him  as  he  is  moving  out  of  the  room,  by  asking, 
"  This  is  the  notice  I  was  to  receive  ?  I  wish  not  to  misap- 
prehend you." 

"Not  exactly  the  notice  you  were  to  receive,  Lady  Dedlock, 
because  the  contemplated  notice  supposed  the  agreement  to 
have  been  observed.  But  virtually  the  same,  virtually  the 
same.    The  difference  is  merely  in  a  lawyer's  mind." 

"You  intend  to  give  me  no  other  notice  ?" 

"  You  are  right.  No." 

"  Do  you  contemplate  undeceiving  Sir  Leicester  to-night  ?  " 

"  A  home  question  ! "  says  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  with  a  slight 
smile,  and  cautiously  shaking  his  head  at  the  shaded  face. 
"  No,  not  to-night." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  All  things  considered,  I  had  better  decline  answering 
that  question,  Lady  Dedlock.  If  I  were  to  say  I  don't  know 
when,  exactly,  you  would  not  believe  me,  and  it  would  answer 
no  purpose.  It  may  be  to-morrow.  I  would  rather  say  no 
more.     You  are  prepared,  and  I  hold  out  no  expectations 

■ill  iiT  i 


244 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


which  circumstances  might  fail  to  justify.  I  wish  you  good- 
evening." 

She  removes  her  hand,  turns  her  pale  face  towards  him  as 
he  walks  silently  to  the  door,  and  stops  him  once  again  as  he 
is  about  to  open  it. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  remain  in  the  house  any  time  ?  I  heard 
you  were  writing  in  the  library.  Are  you  going  to  return 
there  ?  " 

"  Only  for  my  hat.    I  am  going  home." 

She  bows  her  eyes  rather  than  her  head,  the  movement  is 
so  slight  aud  curious  ;  and  he  withdraws.  Clear  of  the  room 
he  looks  at  his  watch,  but  is  inclined  to  doubt  it  by  a  minute 
or  thereabouts.  There  is  a  splendid  clock  upon  the  staircase, 
famous,  as  splendid  clocks  not  often  are,  for  its  accuracy. 
"  And  what  do  you  say  ?  "  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  inquires,  referring 
to  it.    "  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

If  it  said  now,  "  Don't  go  home  !  "  What  a  famous  clock, 
hereafter,  if  it  said  to-night  of  all  the  nights  that  it  has 
counted  off,  to  this  old  man  of  all  the  young  and  old  men  who 
have  ever  stood  before  it,  "  Don't  go  home  !  "  With  its  sharp 
clear  bell  it  strikes  three-quarters  after  seven,  and  ticks  on 
again.  "  Why,  you  are  worse  than  I  thought  you,"  says  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn,  muttering  reproof  to  his  watch.  "Two  minutes 
wrong  ?  At  this  rate  you  won't  last  my  time."  What  a 
watch  to  return  good  for  evil,  if  it  ticked  in  answer,  "  Don't 
go  home ! " 

He  passes  out  into  the  streets,  and  walks  on,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  under  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  houses, 
many  of  whose  mysteries,  difficulties,  mortgages,  delicate 
affairs  of  all  kinds,  are  treasured  up  within  his  old  black  satin 
waistcoat.  He  is  in  the  confidence  of  the  very  bricks  and 
mortar.  The  high  chimney-stacks  telegraphed  family  secrets 
to  him.  Yet  there  is  not  a  voice  in  a  mile  of  them  to  whisper 
"  Don't  go  home  !  " 

Through  the  stir  and  motion  of  the  commoner  streets ; 
through  the  roar  and  jar  of  many  vehicles,  many  feet,  many 
voices  ;  with  the  blazing  shop-lights  lighting  him  on,  the  west 
wind  blowing  him  on,  and  the  crowd  pressing  him  on  ;  he  is 
pitilessly  urged  upon  his  way,  and  nothing  meets  him  mur- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


245 


muring  "  Don't  go  home  !  "  Arrived  at  last  in  his  dull  room, 
to  light  his  candles,  and  look  round  and  up,  and  see  the 
Eoman  pointing  from  the  ceiling,  there  is  no  new  significance 
in  the  Roman's  hand  to-night,  or  in  the  flutter  of  the 
attendant  groups,  to  give  him  the  late  warning,  "  Don't  come 
here !  " 

It  is  a  moonlight  night ;  but  the  moon,  being  past  the  full, 
is  only  now  rising  over  the  great  wilderness  of  London.  The 
stars  are  shining  as  they  shone  above  the  turret-leads  at 
Chesney  Wold.  This  woman,  as  he  has  of  late  been  so 
accustomed  to  call  her,  looks  out  upon  them.  Her  soul 
is  turbulent  within  her;  she  is  sick  at  heart  and  restless. 
The  large  rooms  are  too  cramped  and  close.  She  cannot 
endure  their  restraint,  and  will  walk  alone  in  a  neighboring 
garden. 

Too  capricious  and  imperious  in  all  she  does,  to  be  the 
cause  of  much  surprise  in  those  about  her  as  to  anything  she 
does,  this  woman,  loosely  muffled,  goes  out  into  the  moonlight. 
Mercury  attends  with  the  key.  Having  opened  the  garden- 
gate,  he  delivers  the  key  into  his  Lady's  hand  at  her  request, 
and  is  bidden  to  go  back.  She  will  walk  there  some  time,  to 
ease  her  aching  head.  She  may  be  an  hour;  she  may  be 
more.  She  needs  no  further  escort.  The  gate  shuts  upon  its 
spring  with  a  clash,  and  he  leaves  her,  passing  on  into  the 
dark  shade  of  some  trees. 

A  fine  night,  and  a  bright  large  moon,  and  multitudes  of 
stars.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  in  repairing  to  his  cellar,  and  in 
opening  and  shutting  those  resounding  doors,  has  to  cross  a 
little  prison-like  yard.  He  looks  up  casually,  thinking  what 
a  fine  night,  what  a  bright  large  moon,  what  multitudes  of 
stars  !    A  quiet  night,  too. 

A  very  quiet  night.  When  the  moon  shines  very  brilliantly  ; 
a  solitude  and  stillness  seem  to  proceed  from  her,  that  influ- 
ence even  crowded  places  full  of  life.  Not  only  is  it  a  still 
night  on  dusty  highroads  and  on  hill-summits,  whence  a  wide 
expanse  of  country  may  be  seen  in  repose,  quieter  and  quieter 
as  it  spreads  away  into  a  fringe  of  trees  against  the  sky,  with 
the  gray  ghost  of  a  bloom  upon  them ;  not  only  is  it  a  still 
night  in  gardens  and  in  woods,  and  on  the  river  where  the 


246  BLEAK  HOUSE. 


water-meadows  are  fresh  and  green,  and  the  stream  sparkles 
on  among  pleasant  islands,  murmuring  weirs,  and  whispering 
rushes ;  not  only  does  the  stillness  attend  it  as  it  flows  where 
houses  cluster  thick,  where  many  bridges  are  reflected  in  it, 
where  wharves  and  shipping  make  it  black  and  awful,  where 
it  winds  from  these  disfigurements  through  marshes  whose 
grim  beacons  stand  like  skeletons  washed  ashore,  where  it 
expands  through  the  bolder  region  of  rising  grounds,  rich  in 
corn-field,  windmill  and  steeple,  and  where  it  mingles  with  the 
ever-heaving  sea ;  not  only  is  it  a  still  night  on  the  deep,  and 
on  the  shore  where  the  watcher  stands  to  see  the  ship  with 
her  spread  wings  cross  the  path  of  light  that  appears  to  be 
presented  to  only  him ;  but  even  on  this  stranger's  wilderness 
of  London  there  is  some  rest.  Its  steeples  and  towers,  and  its 
one  great  dome,  grow  more  ethereal ;  its  smoky  house-tops 
lose  their  grossness,  in  the  pale  effulgence ;  the  noises  that 
arise  from  the  streets  are  fewer  and  are  softened,  and  the 
footsteps  on  the  pavements  pass  more  tranquilly  away.  In 
these  fields  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  inhabiting,  where  the  shep- 
herds play  on  Chancery  pipes  that  have  no  stop,  and  keep 
their  sheep  in  the  fold  by  hook  and  by  crook  until  they  have 
shorn  them  exceeding  close,  every  noise  is  merged,  this  moon- 
light night,  into  a  distant  ringing  hum,  as  if  the  city  were  a 
vast  glass,  vibrating. 

What's  that  ?    Who  fired  a  gun  or  pistol  ?    Where  was  it  ? 

The  few  foot-passengers  start,  stop,  and  stare  about  them. 
Some  windows  and  doors  are  opened,  and  people  come  out  to 
look.  It  was  a  loud  report,  and  echoed  and  rattled  heavily. 
It  shook  one  house,  or  so  a  man  says  who  was  passing.  It 
has  aroused  all  the  dogs  in  the  neighborhood,  who  bark 
vehemently.  Terrified  cats  scamper  across  the  road.  While 
the  dogs  are  yet  barking  and  howling — there  is  one  dog 
howling  like  a  demon  —  the  church-clocks,  as  if  they  were 
startled  too,  begin  to  strike.  The  hum  from  the  streets,  like- 
wise, seems  to  swell  into  a  shout.  But  it  is  soon  over.  Before 
the  last  clock  begins  to  strike  ten,  there  is  a  lull.  When  it 
has  ceased,  the  fine  night,  the  bright  large  moon,  and  multi- 
tudes of  stars,  are  left  at  peace  again. 

Has  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  been  disturbed?    His  windows  are 


A  NEW  MEANING  IN  THE  ROMAN. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


247 


dark  and  quiet,  and  his  door  is  shut.  It  must  be  something 
unusual  indeed,  to  bring  him  out  of  his  shell.  Nothing  is 
heard  of  him,  nothing  is  seen  of  him.  What  power  of  cannon 
might  it  take  to  shake  that  rusty  old  man  out  of  his  immov- 
able composure  ? 

For  many  years,  the  persistent  Eoman  has  been  pointing, 
with  no  particular  meaning,  from  that  ceiling.  It  is  not 
likely  that  he  has  any  new  meaning  in  him  to-night.  Once 
pointing,  always  pointing  —  like  any  Eoman,  or  even  Briton, 
with  a  single  idea.  There  he  is,  no  doubt,  in  his  impossible 
attitude,  pointing,  unavailingly,  all  night  long.  Moonlight, 
darkness,  dawn,  sunrise,  day.  There  he  is  still,  eagerly  point- 
ing, and  no  one  minds  him. 

But,  a  little  after  the  coming  of  the  day,  come  people  to 
clean  the  rooms.  And  either  the  Eoman  has  some  new 
meaning  in  him,  not  expressed  before,  or  the  foremost  of  them 
goes  wild ;  for,  looking  up  at  his  outstretched  hand,  and 
looking  down  at  what  is  below  it,  that  person  shrieks  and 
flies.  The  others,  looking  in  as  the  first  one  looked,  shriek 
and  fly  too,  and  there  is  an  alarm  in  the  street. 

What  does  it  mean  ?  No  light  is  admitted  into  the 
darkened  chamber,  and  people  unaccustomed  to  it,  enter,  and 
treading  softly,  but  heavily,  carry  a  weight  into  the  bedroom, 
and  lay  it  down.  There  is  whispering  and  wondering  all  day, 
strict  search  of  every  corner,  careful  tracing  of  steps,  and 
careful  noting  of  the  disposition  of  every  article  of  furniture. 
All  eyes  look  up  at  the  Eoman,  and  all  voices  murmur,  "  If 
he  could  only  tell  what  he  saw  ! " 

He  is  pointing  at  a  table,  with  a  bottle  (nearly  full  of  wine) 
and  a  glass  upon  it,  and  two  candles  that  were  blown  out 
suddenly,  soon  after  being  lighted.  He  is  pointing  at  an 
empty  chair,  and  at  a  stain  upon  the  ground  before  it  that 
might  be  almost  covered  with  a  hand.  These  objects  lie 
directly  within  his  range.  An  excited  imagination  might 
suppose  that  there  was  something  in  them  so  terrific,  as  to 
drive  the  rest  of  the  composition,  not  only  the  attendant  big- 
legged  boys,  but  the  clouds  and  flowers  and  pillars  too  —  in 
short,  the  very  body  and  soul  of  Allegory,  and  all  the  brains 
it  has  —  stark  mad.    It  happens  surely,  that  every  one  who 


248 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


comes  into  the  darkened  room  and  looks  at  these  things,  looks 
up  at  the  Roman,  and  that  he  is  invested  in  all  eyes  with 
mystery  and  awe,  as  if  he  were  a  paralyzed  dumb  witness. 

So,  it  shall  happen  surely,  through  many  years  to  come, 
that  ghostly  stories  shall  be  told  of  the  stain  upon  the  floor, 
so  easy  to  be  covered,  so  hard  to  be  got  out ;  and  that  the 
Roman,  pointing  from  the  ceiling,  shall  point,  so  long  as  dust 
and  damp  and  spiders  spare  him,  with  far  greater  significance 
than  he  ever  had  in  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  time,  and  with  a 
deadly  meaning.  For,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  time  is  over  for 
evermore ;  and  the  Roman  pointed  at  the  murderous  hand 
uplifted  against  his  life,  and  pointed  helplessly  at  him,  from 
night  to  morning,  lying  face  downward  on  the  floor  shot 
through  the  heart. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


249 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

♦ 

DUTIFUL  FRIENDSHIP. 

A  great  annual  occasion  has  come  round  in  the  establish- 
ment of  Mr.  Joseph  Bagnet,  otherwise  Lignum  Vitse,  ex- 
artilleryman  and  present  bassoon-player.  An  occasion  of 
feasting  and  festival.  The  celebration  of  a  birthday  in  the 
family. 

It  is  not  Mr.  Bagnet's  birthday.  Mr.  Bagnet  merely  distin- 
guishes that  epoch  in  the  musical-instrument  business,  by  kiss- 
ing the  children  with  an  extra  smack  before  breakfast,  smoking 
an  additional  pipe  after  dinner,  and  wondering  towards  even- 
ing what  his  poor  old  mother  is  thinking  about  it,  —  a  subject 
of  infinite  speculation,  and  rendered  so  by  his  mother  having 
departed  this  life  twenty  years.  Some  men  rarely  revert  to 
their  father,  but  seem  in  the  bank-books  of  their  remem- 
brance, to  have  transferred  all  the  stock  of  filial  affection  into 
their  mother's  name.  Mr.  Bagnet  is  one  of  these.  Perhaps 
his  exalted  appreciation  of  the  merits  of  the  old  girl,  causes 
him  usually  to  make  the  noun-substantive,  Goodness,  of  the 
feminine  gender. 

It  is  not  the  birthday  of  one  of  the  three  children.  Those 
occasions  are  kept  with  some  marks  of  distinction,  but  they 
rarely  overleap  the  bounds  of  happy  returns  and  a  pudding. 
On  young  Woolwich's  last  birthday,  Mr.  Bagnet  certainly  did, 
after  observing  upon  his  growth  and  general  advancement, 
proceed,  in  a  moment  of  profound  reflection  on  the  changes 
wrought  by  time,  to  examine  him  in  the  catechism  ;  accom- 
plishing with  extreme  accuracy  the  questions  number  one  and 
two,  What  is  your  name  ?  and  Who  gave  you  that  name  ?  but 
there  failing  in  the  exact  precision  of  his  memory,  and  sub- 
stituting for  number  three,  the  question  And  how  do  you  like 
that  name  ?  which  he  propounded  with  a  sense  of  its  impor- 


250 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


tance,  in  itself  so  edifying  and  improving,  as  to  give  it  quite  an 
orthodox  air.  This,  however,  was  a  specialty  on  that  partic- 
ular birthday,  and  not  a  generic  solemnity. 

It  is  the  old  girl's  birthday  ;  and  that  is  the  greatest  holiday 
and  reddest  letter  day  in  Mr.  Bagnet's  calendar.  The  auspi- 
cious event  is  always  commemorated  according  to  certain 
forms,  settled  and  prescribed  by  Mr.  Bagnet  some  years  since. 
Mr.  Bagnet  being  deeply  convinced  that  to  have  a  pair  of 
fowls  for  dinnre  is  to  attain  the  highest  pitch  of  imperial 
luxury,  invariably  goes  forth  himself  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing of  this  day  to  buy  a  pair ;  he  is,  as  invariably  taken  in  by 
the  vender,  and  installed  in  the  possession  of  the  oldest  inhab- 
itants of  any  coop  in  Europe.  Returning  with  these  triumphs 
of  toughness  tied  up  in  a  clean  blue  and  white  cotton  handker- 
chief (essential  to  the  arrangements),  he  in  a  casual  manner 
invites  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  declare  at  breakfast  what  she  would 
like  for  dinner."  Mrs.  Bagnet,  by  a  coincidence  never  known 
to  fail,  replying  Fowls,  Mr.  Bagnet  instantly  produces  his 
bundle  from  a  place  of  concealment,  amidst  general  amaze- 
ment and  rejoicing.  He  further  requires  that  the  old  girl  shall 
do  nothing  all  day  long,  but  sit  in  her  very  best  gown,  and  be 
served  by  himself  and  the  young  people.  As  he  is  not  illus- 
trious for  his  cookery,  this  may  be  supposed  to  be  a  matter  of 
state  rather  than  enjoyment  on  the  old  girl's  part  ;  but  she 
keeps  her  state  with  all  imaginable  cheerfulness. 

On  this  present  birthday,  Mr.  Bagnet  has  accomplished  the 
usual  preliminaries.  He  has  bought  two  specimens  of  poultry 
which,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  adages,  were  certainly  not 
caught  with  chaff,  to  be  prepared  for  the  spit ;  he  has  amazed 
and  rejoiced  the  family  by  their  unlooked-for  production ;  he 
is  himself  directing  the  roasting  of  the  poultry;  and  Mrs 
Bagnet,  with  her  wholesome  brown  fingers  itching  to  prevent 
what  she  sees  going  wrong,  sits  in  her  gown  of  ceremony,  an 
honored  guest. 

Quebec  and  Malta  lay  the  cloth  for  dinner,  while  Woolwich 
serving  as  beseems  him,  under  his  father,  keeps  the  fowls 
revolving.  To  these  young  scullions  Mrs.  Bagnet  occasion 
ally  imparts  a  wink,  or  a  shake  of  the  head,  or  a  crooked  face 
as  they  made  mistakes. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


251 


"  At  half  after  one."  Says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "  To  the  minute. 
They'll  be  done." 

Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  anguish,  beholds  one  of  them  at  a  stand- 
still before  the  tire,  and  beginning  to  burn. 

"  You  shall  have  a  dinner,  old  girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  "  fit 
for  a  queen." 

Mrs.  Bagnet  shows  her  white  teeth  cheerfully,  but  to  the 
perception  of  her  son  betrays  so  much  uneasiness  of  spirit 
that  he  is  impelled  by  the  dictates  of  affection  to  ask  her,  with 
his  eyes,  what  is  the  matter?  — thus  standing,  with  his  eyes 
wide  open,  more  oblivious  of  the  fowls  than  before,  and  not 
affording  the  least  hope  of  a  return  to  consciousness.  Fortu- 
nately, his  elder  sister  perceives  the  cause  of  the  agitation  in 
Mrs.  Bagnet's  breast,  and  with  an  admonitory  poke  recalls 
him.  The  stopped  fowls  going  round  again,  Mrs.  Bagnet 
closes  her  eyes,  in  the  intensity  of  her  relief. 

"  George  will  look  us  up,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "At  half  after 
four.  To  the  moment.  How  many  years,  old  girl.  Has 
George  looked  us  up.    This  afternoon?" 

"  Ah,  Lignum,  Lignum,  as  many  as  make  an  old  woman  of 
a  young  one,  I  begin  to  think.  Just  about  that,  and  no  less," 
returns  Mrs.  Bagnet,  laughing,  and  shaking  her  head. 

"  Old  girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "  Never  mind.  You'd  be  as 
young  as  ever  you  was.  If  you  wasn't  younger.  Which  you 
are.    As  everybody  knows." 

Quebec  and  Malta  here  exclaim,  with  clapping  of  hands, 
that  Bluffy  is  sure  to  bring  mother  something,  and  begin  to 
speculate  on  what  it  will  be. 

"  Do  you  know,  Lignum,"  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  casting  a  glance 
on  the  table-cloth,  and  winking  "  salt ! "  at  Malta  with  her 
right  eye,  and  shaking  the  pepper  away  from  Quebec  with 
her  head;  "I  begin  to  think  George  is  in  the  roving  way 
again." 

"George,"  returns  Mr.  Bagnet,  "will  never  desert.  And 
Leave  his  old  comrade.    In  the  lurch.    Don't  be  afraid  of  it." 

"  No,  Lignum.  No.  I  don't  say  he  will.  I  don't  think  he 
will.  But  if  he  could  get  over  this  money  trouble  of  his,  I 
believe  he  would  be  off." 

Mr.  Bagnet  asks  why  ? 


252 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Well/'  returns  his  wife,  considering.  "  George  seems  to 
me  to  be  getting  not  a  little  impatient  and  restless.  I  don't 
say  but  what  he's  as  free  as  ever.  Of  course  he  must  be 
free,  or  he  wouldn't  be  George ;  but  he  smarts,  and  seems 
put  out." 

"  He's  extra  drilled,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "  By  a  lawyer.  Who 
would  put  the  devil  out." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  his  wife  assents ;  "  but  so  it  is, 
Lignum." 

Further  conversation  is  prevented,  for  the  time,  by  the 
necessity  under  which  Mr.  Bagnet  finds  himself  of  directing 
the  whole  force  of  his  mind  to  the  dinner,  which  is  a  little 
endangered  by  the  dry  humor  of  the  fowls  in  not  yielding  any 
gravy,  and  also  by  the  made  gravy  acquiring  no  flavor,  and 
turning  out  of  a  flaxen  complexion.  With  a  similar  perverse- 
ness,  the  potatoes  crumble  off  forks  in  the  process  of  peeling, 
upheaving  from  their  centres  in  every  direction,  as  if  they 
were  subject  to  earthquakes.  The  legs  of  the  fowls,  too,  are 
longer  than  could  be  desired,  and  extremely  scaly.  Overcom- 
ing these  disadvantages  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  Mr.  Bagnet 
at  last  dishes,  and  they  sit  down  at  table ;  Mrs.  Bagnet  occu- 
pying the  guest's  place  at  his  right  hand. 

It  is  well  for  the  old  girl  that  she  has  but  one  birthday  in  a 
year,  for  two  such  indulgences  in  poultry  might  be  injurious. 
Every  kind  of  finer  tendon  and  ligament  that  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  poultry  to  possess,  is  developed  in  these  specimens 
in  the  singular  form  of  guitar-strings.  Their  limbs  appear  to 
have  struck  roots  into  their  breasts  and  bodies,  as  aged  trees 
strike  roots  into  the  earth.  Their  legs  are  so  hard,  as  to 
encourage  the  idea  that  they  must  have  devoted  the  greater 
part  of  their  long  and  arduous  lives  to  pedestrian  exercises, 
and  the  walking  of  matches.  But  Mr.  Bagnet,  unconscious 
of  these  little  defects,  sets  his  heart  on  Mrs.  Bagnet  eating  a 
most  severe  quantity  of  the  delicacies  before  her ;  and  as  that 
good  old  girl  would  not  cause  him  a  moment's  disappointment 
on  any  day,  least  of  all  on  such  a  day,  for  any  consideration, 
she  imperils  her  digestion  fearfully.  How  young  Woolwich 
cleans  the  drum-sticks  without  being  of  ostrich  descent,  his 
anxious  mother  is  at  a  loss  to  understand. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


253 


The  old  girl  has  another  trial  to  undergo  after  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  repast,  in  sitting  in  state  to  see  the  room  cleared, 
the  hearth  swept,  and  the  dinner-service  washed  up  and  pol- 
ished in  the  back  yard.  The  great  delight  and  energy  with 
which  the  two  young  ladies  apply  themselves  to  these  duties, 
turning  up  their  skirts  in  imitation  of  their  mother,  and  skat- 
ing in  and  out  on  little  scaffolds  of  pattens,  inspire  the  highest 
hopes  for  the  future,  but  some  anxiety  for  the  present.  The 
same  causes  lead  to  a  confusion  of  tongues,  a  clattering  of 
crockery,  a  rattling  of  tin  mugs,  a  whisking  of  brooms,  and  an 
expenditure  of  water,  all  in  excess ;  while  the  saturation  of 
the  young  ladies  themselves  is  almost  too  moving  a  spectacle 
for  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  look  upon,  with  the  calmness  proper  to  her 
position.  At  last  the  various  cleansing  processes  are  triumph- 
antly completed;  Quebec  and  Malta  appear  in  fresh  attire, 
smiling  and  dry ;  pipes,  tobacco,  and  something  to  drink,  are 
placed  upon  the  table ;  and  the  old  girl  enjoys  the  first  peace 
of  mind  she  ever  knows  on  the  day  of  this  delightful  enter- 
tainment. 

When  Mr.  Bagnet  takes  his  usual  seat,  the  hands  of  the 
clock  are  very  near  to  half-past  four ;  as  they  mark  it  accu- 
rately, Mr.  Bagnet  announces,  — 

"  George  !    Military  time." 

It  is  George;  and  he  has  hearty  congratulations  for  the  old 
girl  (whom  he  kisses  on  the  great  occasion),  and  for  the 
children,  and  for  Mr.  Bagnet.  "  Happy  returns  to  all !  "  says 
Mr.  George. 

"  But,  George,  old  man ! "  cries  Mrs.  Bagnet,  looking  at 
him  curiously.    "  What's  come  to  you  ?  " 
"  Come  to  me  ?  " 

"Ah!  you  are  so  white,  George  —  for  you — and  look  so 
shocked.    Now  don't  he,  Lignum  ?  " 

"George,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  "tell  the  old  girl.  What's 
the  matter." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  looked  white,"  says  the  trooper,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  brow,  "and  I  didn't  know  I  looked  shocked, 
and  I'm  sorry  I  do.  But  the  truth  is,  that  boy  who  was  taken 
in  at  my  place  died  yesterday  afternoon,  and  it  has  rather 
knocked  me  over," 


254 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Poor  creetur ! "  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  a  mother's  pity. 
"  Is  he  gone  ?    Dear,  dear  !  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  about  it,  for  it's  not  birth- 
day talk,  but  you  have  got  it  out  of  me,  you  see,  before  I  sit 
down.  I  should  have  roused  up  in  a  minute,"  says  the 
trooper,  making  himself  speak  more  gayly,  "  but  you're  so 
quick,  Mrs.  Bagnet." 

"You're  right.  The  old  girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  "Is  as 
quick.    As  powder." 

"And  what's  more,  she's  the  subject  of  the  day,  and 
we'll  stick  to  her,"  cries  Mr.  George.  "  See  here,  I  have 
brought  a  little  brooch  along  with  me.  It's  a  poor  thing, 
you  know,  but  it's  a  keepsake.  That's  all  the  good  it  is, 
Mrs.  Bagfiet." 

Mr.  George  produces  his  present,  which  is  greeted  with 
admiring  leapings  and  clappings  by  the  young  family,  and 
with  a  species  of  reverential  admiration  by  Mr.  Bagnet.  "  Old 
girl,"  says  Mr.  Bagnet.    "  Tell  him  my  opinion  of  it." 

"  Why,  it's  a  wonder,  George ! "  Mrs.  Bagnet  exclaims. 
"  It's  the  beautifullest  thing  that  ever  was  seen  !  " 

"  Good  ! "  says  Mr.  Bagnet.    "  My  opinion." 

"  It's  so  pretty,  George,"  cries  Mrs.  Bagnet,  turning  it  on 
all  sides,  and  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length,  "that  it  seems 
too  choice  for  me." 

"  Bad  !  "  says  Mr.  Bagnet.    "  Not  my  opinion." 

"  But  whatever  it  is,  a  hundred  thousand  thanks,  old 
fellow,"  says  Mrs.  Bagnet,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure, 
and  her  hand  stretched  out  to  him ;  "  and  though  I  have  been 
a  cross-grained  soldier's  wife  to  }rou  sometimes,  George,  we 
are  as  strong  friends,  I  am  sure,  in  reality,  as  ever  can  be. 
Now  you  shall  fasten  it  on  yourself,  for  good  luck,  if  you 
will,  George." 

The  children  close  up  to  see  it  done,  and  Mr.  Bagnet  looks 
over  young  Woolwich's  head  to  see  it  done,  with  an  interest 
so  maturely  wooden,  yet  so  pleasantly  childish,  that  Mrs. 
Bagnet  cannot  help  laughing  in  her  airy  way,  and  saying, 
"0  Lignum,  Lignum,  what  a  precious  old  chap  you  are  !" 
But  the  trooper  fails  to  fasten  the  brooch.  His  hand  shakes, 
he  is  nervous,  and  it  falls  off.    "  Would  any  one  believe  this  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


255 


says  he,  catching  it  as  it  drops,  and  looking  round.  "  I  am  so 
out  of  sorts  that  I  bungle  at  an  easy  job  like  this ! " 

Mrs.  Bagnet  concludes  that  for  such  a  case  there  is  no 
remedy  like  a  pipe ;  and  fastening  the  brooch  herself  in  a 
twinkling,  causes  the  trooper  to  be  inducted  into  his  usual 
snug  place,  and  the  pipes  to  be  got  into  action.  "If  that 
don't  bring  you  round,  George,"  says  she,  "just  throw  your 
eye  across  here  at  your  present  now  and  then,  and  the  two 
together  must  do  it." 

"  You  ought  to  do  it  of  yourself,"  George  answers ;  "  I 
know  that  very  well,  Mrs.  Bagnet.  I'll  tell  you  how,  one  way 
and  another,  the  blues  have  got  to  be  too  many  for  me.  Here 
was  this  poor  lad.  'Twas  dull  work  to  see  him  dying  as  he 
did,  and  not  be  able  to  help  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  George  ?  You  did  help  him.  You 
took  him  under  your  roof." 

"  I  helped  him  so  far,  but  that's  little.  I  mean,  Mrs. 
Bagnet,  there  he  was,  dying,  without  ever  having  been  taught 
much  more  than  to  know  his  right  hand  from  his  left.  And 
he  was  too  far  gone  to  be  helped  out  of  that." 

"  Ah,  poor  creetur  !  "  says  Mrs.  Bagnet. 

"  Then,"  says  the  trooper,  not  yet  lighting  his  pipe,  and 
passing  his  heavy  hand  over  his  hair,  "that  brought  up 
Gridley  in  a  man's  mind.  His  was  a  bad  case  too,  in  a 
different  way.  Then  the  two  got  mixed  up  in  a  man's  mind 
with  a  flinty  old  rascal  who  had  to  do  with  both.  And  to 
think  of  that  rusty  carbine,  stock  and  barrel,  standing  up  on 
end  in  his  corner,  hard,  indifferent,  taking  everything  so 
evenly  —  it  made  flesh  and  blood  tingle,  I  do  assure  you." 

"My  advice  to  you,"  returns  Mrs.  Bagnet,  "is  to  light 
your  pipe,  and  tingle  that  way.  It's  wholesomer  and  com- 
fortabler,  and  better  for  the  health  altogether." 

"  You're  right,"  says  the  trooper,  "  and  I'll  do  it !  " 

So,  he  does  it :  though  still  with  an  indignant  gravity  that 
impresses  the  young  Bagnets,  and  even  causes  Mr.  Bagnet  to 
defer  the  ceremony  of  drinking  Mrs.  Bagnet's  health  ;  always 
given  by  himself,  on  these  occasions,  in  a  speech  of  exem- 
plary terseness.  But  the  young  ladies  having  composed  what 
Mr.  Bagnet  is  in  the  habit  of  calling  "the  mixtur,"  and 


256 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


George's  pipe  being  now  in  a  glow,  Mr.  Bagnet  considers  it 
his  duty  to  proceed  to  the  toast  of  the  evening.  He  addresses 
the  assembled  company  in  the  following  terms :  — 

"  George.  Woolwich.  Quebec.  Malta.  This  is  her  birth- 
day. Take  a  day's  march.  And  you  won't  find  such  another. 
Here's  towards  her  !  " 

The  toast  having  been  drunk  with  enthusiasm,  Mrs.  Bagnet 
returns  thanks  in  a  neat  address  of  corresponding  brevity, 
This  model  composition  is  limited  to  the  three  words,  "  And 
wishing  yours  ! "  which  the  old  girl  follows  up  with  a  nod 
at  everybody  in  succession,  and  a  well-regulated  swig  of  the 
mixture.  This  she  again  follows  up,  on  the  present  occasion, 
by  the  wholly  unexpected  exclamation,  "  Here's  a  man  !  " 

Here  is  a  man,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  little  com- 
pany, looking  in  at  the  parlor  door.  He  is  a  sharp-eyed 
man  —  a  quick  keen  man — and  he  takes  in  everybody's  look 
at  him,  all  at  once,  individually  and  collectively,  in  a  manner 
that  stamps  him  a  remarkable  man. 

"  George "  says  the  man,  nodding,  "  how  do  you  find 
yourself  ?  " 

«  Why,  it's  Bucket ! "  cries  Mr.  George. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  man,  coming  in  and  closing  the  door.  "I 
was  going  down  the  street  here,  when  I  happened  to  stop  and 
look  in  at  the  musical  instruments  in  the  shop  window  —  a 
friend  of  mine  is  in  wants  of  a  second-hand  wiolinceller,  of  a 
good  tone  —  and  I  saw  a  party  enjoying  themselves,  and  I 
thought  it  was  you  in  the  corner ;  I  thought  I  couldn't  be 
mistaken.  How  goes  the  world  with  you,  George,  at  the 
present  moment?  Pretty  smooth  ?  And  with  you,  ma'am  ? 
And  with  you,  governor  ?  And  Lord ! "  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
opening  his  arms,  "here's  children  too!  You  may  do  any- 
thing with  me,  if  you  only  show  me  children.  Give  us  a 
kiss,  my  pets.  No  occasion  to  inquire  who  you?'  father  and 
mother  is.    Never  saw  such  a  likeness  in  my  life  !  " 

Mr.  Bucket,  not  unwelcome,  has  sat  himself  down  next  to 
Mr.  George,  and  taken  Quebec  and  Malta  on  his  knees. 
"  You  pretty  dears,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "  give  us  another  kiss ; 
it's  the  only  thing  I'm  greedy  in.  Lord  bless  you,  how 
healthy  you  look  !    And  what  may  be  the  ages  of  these  two, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


257 


ma'am  ?  I  should  put  em  down  at  the  figures  of  about  eight 
and  ten." 

*•  You're  very  near,  sir/'  says  Mrs.  Bagnet. 

"I  generally  am  near."  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  "being  so 
fond  of  children.  A  friend  of  mine  has  had  nineteen  of  'em, 
ma'am,  all  by  one  mother,  and  she's  still  as  fresh  and  rosy  as 
the  morning.  Not  so  much  so  as  yourself,  but,  upon  my  soul, 
she  comes  near  you !  And  what  do  you  call  these,  my 
darling  ? "  pursues  Mr.  Bucket,  pinching  Malta's  cheek. 
"  These  are  peaches,  these  are.  Bless  your  heart !  And  what 
do  you  think  about  father  ?  Do  you  think  father  could  rec- 
ommend a  second-hand  wiolinceller  of  a  good  tone  for  Mr. 
Bucket's  friend,  my  dear  ?  My  name's  Bucket.  Ain't  that 
a  funny  name  ?  " 

These  blandishments  have  entirely  won  the  family  heart. 
Mrs.  Bagnet  forgets  the  day  to  the  extent  of  filling  a  pipe  and 
a  glass  for  Mr.  Bucket,  and  waiting  upon  him  hospitably. 
She  would  be  glad  to  receive  so  pleasant  a  character  under  any 
circumstances,  but  she  tells  him  that  as  a  friend  of  George's 
she  is  particularly  glad  to  see  him  this  evening,  for  George 
has  not  been  in  his  usual  spirits. 

"Not  in  his  usual  spirits  ?  "  exclaims  Mr.  Bucket.  "Why 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  What's  the  matter,  George  ? 
You  don't  intend  to  tell  me  you've  been  out  of  spirits.  What 
should  you  be  out  of  spirits  for  ?  You  haven't  got  anything 
on  your  mind,  you  know." 

"Nothing  particular,"  returns  the  trooper. 

"/should  think  not,"  rejoins  Mr.  Bucket.  "What  could 
you  have  on  your  mind,  you  know  !  And  have  these  pets  got 
anything  on  their  minds,  eh  ?  Not  they ;  but  they'll  be  upon 
the  minds  of  some  of  the  young  fellows,  some  of  these  days, 
and  make  'em  precious  low-spirited.  I  ain't  much  of  a  prophet, 
but  I  can  tell  you  that,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Bagnet,  quite  charmed,  hopes  Mr.  Bucket  has  a  family 
of  his  own. 

"There,  ma'am!"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "Would  you  believe 
it  ?  No,  I  haven't.  My  wife,  and  a  lodger,  constitute  my 
family.  Mrs.  Bucket  is  as  fond  of  children  as  myself,  and  as 
wishful  to  have  'em;  but  no.    So  it  is.    Worldly  goods  are 

VOL.  II. 


258 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


divided  unequally,  and  man  must  not  repine.    What  a  very 
nice  back  yard,  ma'am  !    Any  way  out  of  that  yard,  now  ?  " 
There  is  no  way  out  of  that  yard. 

"  Ain't  there  really  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "  I  should  have 
thought  there  might  have  been.  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
saw  a  back  yard  that  took  my  fancy  more.  Would  you  allow 
me  to  look  at  it  ?  Thank  you.  No,  I  see  there's  no  way  out. 
But  what  a  very  good-proportioned  yard  it  is  ! " 

Having  cast  his  sharp  eye  all  about  it,  Mr.  Bucket  returns 
to  his  chair  next  his  friend  Mr.  George,  and  pats  Mr.  George 
affectionately  on  the  shoulder. 

"  How  are  your  spirits,  now,  George  ?  " 

"  All  right  now,"  returns  the  trooper. 

" That's  your  sort!  "  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "Why  should  you 
ever  have  been  otherwise  ?  A  man  of  your  fine  figure  and 
constitution  has  no  right  to  be  out  of  spirits.  That  ain't  a 
chest  to  be  out  of  spirits,  is  it,  ma'am  ?  And  you  haven't  got 
anything  on  your  mind,  you  know,  George ;  what  could  you 
have  on  your  mind  !  " 

Somewhat  harping  on  this  phrase,  considering  the  extent 
and  variety  of  his  conversational  powers,  Mr.  Bucket  twice  or 
thrice  repeats  it  to  the  pipe  he  lights,  and  with  a  listening 
face  that  is  particularly  his  own.  But  the  sun  of  his  sociality 
soon  recovers  from  this  brief  eclipse,  and  shines  again. 

"  And  this  is  brother,  is  it,  my  dears  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
referring  to  Quebec  and  Malta  for  information  on  the  subject 
of  young  Woolwich.  "  And  a  nice  brother  he  is  —  half  brother 
I  mean  to  say.    For  he's  too  old  to  be  your  boy,  ma'am." 

"  I  can  certify  at  all  events,  that  he  is  not  anybody  else's," 
returns  Mrs.  Bagnet,  laughing. 

"  Well,  you  do  surprise  me !  Yet  he's  like  you,  there's  no 
denying.  Lord,  he's  wonderfully  like  you !  But  about  what 
you  may  call  the  brow,  you  know,  there  his  father  comes 
out ! "  Mr.  Bucket  compares  the  faces  with  one  eye  shut  up, 
while  Mr.  Bagnet  smokes  in  stolid  satisfaction. 

This  is  an  opportunity  for  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  inform  him,  that 
the  boy  is  George's  godson. 

"George's  godson,  is  he  ?  "  rejoins  Mr.  Bucket,  with  extreme 
cordiality.    "I  must  shake  hands  over  again  with  George's 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


259 


godson.  Godfather  and  godson  do  credit  to  one  another.  And 
what  do  you  intend  to  make  of  him,  ma'am  ?  Does  he  show 
any  turn  for  any  musical  instrument  ?  " 

Mr.  Bagnet  suddenly  interposes,  "  Plays  the  Fife.  Beau- 
tiful." 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  governor,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  struck 
by  the  coincidence,  "  that  when  I  was  a  boy  I  played  the  fife 
myself  ?  Not  in  a  scientific  way,  as  I  expect  he  does,  but  by 
ear.  Lord  bless  you  !  British  Grenadiers  —  there's  a  tune  to 
warm  an  Englishman  up  ?  Could  you  give  us  British  Grena- 
diers, my  fine  fellow  ?  " 

Nothing  could  be  more  acceptable  to  the  little  circle  than 
this  call  upon  young  Woolwich,  who  immediately  fetches  his 
fife  and  performs  the  stirring  melody  :  during  which  perform- 
ance Mr.  Bucket,  much  enlivened,  beats  time,  and  never  fails 
to  come  in  sharp  with  the  burden,  "Brit  Ish  Gra-a-anadeers  !" 
In  short,  he  shows  so  much  musical  taste,  that  Mr.  Bagnet 
actually  takes  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  express  his  conviction 
that  he  is  a  singer.  Mr.  Bucket  receives  the  harmonious 
impeachment  so  modestly:  confessing  how  that  he  did  once 
chant  a  little,  for  the  expression  of  the  feelings  of  his  own 
bosom,  and  with  no  presumptuous  idea  of  entertaining  his 
friends  :  that  he  is  asked  to  sing.  Not  to  be  behind-hand  in 
the  sociality  of  the  evening,  he  complies,  and  gives  them 
"Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms."  This 
ballad,  he  informs  Mrs.  Bagnet  he  considers  to  have  been  his 
most  powerful  ally  in  moving  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Bucket  when 
a  maiden,  and  inducing  her  to  approach  the  altar  —  Mr. 
Bucket's  own  words  are,  to  come  up  to  the  scratch. 

This  sparkling  stranger  is  such  a  new  and  agreeable  feature 
in  the  evening,  that  Mr.  George,  who  testified  no  great  emo- 
tions of  pleasure  on  his  entrance,  begins,  in  spite  of  himself, 
to  be  rather  proud  of  him.  He  is  so  friendly,  is  a  man  of  so 
many  resources,  and  so  easy  to  get  on  with,  that  it  is  some- 
tiling  to  have  made  him  known  there.  Mr.  Bagnet  becomes, 
after  another  pipe,  so  sensible  of  the  value  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, that  he  solicits  the  honor  of  his  company  on  the  old 
girl's  next  birthday.  If  anything  can  more  closely  cement 
and  consolidate  the  esteem  which  Mr.  Bucket  has  formed  for 


260 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


the  family,  it  is  the  discovery  of  the  nature  of  the  occasion. 
He  drinks  to  Mrs.  Bagnet  with  a  warmth  approaching  to  rap- 
ture, engages  himself  for  that  day  twelvemonth  more  than 
thankfully,  makes  a  memorandum  of  the  day  in  a  large  black 
pocket-book  with  a  girdle  to  it,  and  breathes  a  hope  that  Mrs. 
Bucket  and  Mrs.  Bagnet  may  before  then  become,  in  a  manner, 
sisters.  As  he  says  himself,  what  is  public  life  without 
private  ties  ?  He  is  in  his  humble  way  a  public  man,  but  it 
is  not  in  that  sphere  that  he  finds  happiness.  No,  it  must  be 
sought  within  the  confines  of  domestic  bliss. 

It  is  natural,  under  these  circumstances,  that  he,  in  his 
turn,  should  remember  the  friend  to  whom  he  is  indebted  for 
so  promising  an  acquaintance.  And  he  does.  He  keeps  very 
close  to  him.  Whatever  the  subject  of  the  conversation,  he 
keeps  a  tender  eye  upon  him.  He  waits  to  walk  home  with 
him.  He  is  interested  in  his  very  boots ;  and  observes  even 
them  attentively,  as  Mr.  George  sits  smoking  cross-legged  in 
the  chimney-corner. 

At  length,  Mr.  George  rises  to  depart.  At  the  same 
moment  Mr.  Bucket,  with  the  secret  sympathy  of  friend- 
ship, also  rises.  He  dotes  upon  the  children  to  the  last, 
and  remembers  the  commission  he  has  undertaken  for  an 
absent  friend. 

"  Respecting  that  second-hand  wiolinceller,  governor — could 
you  recommend  me  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Scores/'  says  Mr.  Bagnet. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you/'  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  squeezing  hi 
hand.  "You're  a  friend  in  need.  A  good  tone,  mind  you 
My  friend  is  a  regular  dab  at  it.  Ecod,  he  saws  away  a 
Mo-zart  and  Handel,  and  the  rest  of  the  big-wigs,  like 
thorough  workman.  And  you  needn't,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  i 
a  considerate  and  private  voice,  "you  needn't  commit  yoursel 
to  too  low  a  figure,  governor.  I  don't  want  to  pay  too  larg 
a  price  for  my  friend ;  but  I  want  you  to  have  your  prope 
percentage,  and  be  remunerated  for  your  loss  of  time.  Tha 
is  but  fair.    Every  man  must  live,  and  ought  to  it." 

Mr.  Bagnet  shakes  his  head  at  the  old  girl,  to  the  effec 
that  they  have  found  a  jewel  of  price. 

"  Suppose  I  was  to  give  you  a  look  in,  say  at  half-arter  te 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  261 

to-morrow  morning.  Perhaps  you  could  name  the  figures  of  a 
few  wiolincellers  of  a  good  tone  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

Nothing  easier.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bagnet  both  engage  to  have 
the  requisite  information  ready,  and  even  hint  to  each  other 
at  the  practicability  of  having  a  small  stock  collected  there 
for  approval. 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  " thank  you.  Good-night, 
ma'am.  Good-night,  governor.  Good-night,  darlings.  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  one  of  the  pleasantest  evenings  I  ever 
spent  in  my  life." 

They,  on  the  contrary,  are  much  obliged  to  him  for  the 
pleasure  he  has  given  them  in  his  company ;  and  so  they  part 
with  many  expressions  of  good-will  on  both  sides.  "Now, 
George,  old  boy,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  taking  his  arm  at  the  shop 
door,  "come  along!"  As  they  go  down  the  little  street,  and 
the  Bagnets  pause  for  a  minute  looking  after  them,  Mrs. 
Bagnet  remarks  to  the  worthy  Lignum  that  Mr.  Bucket 
"almost  clings  to  George  like,  and  seems  to  be  really  fond  of 
him." 

^  The  neighboring  streets  being  narrow  and  ill  paved,  it  is  a 
little  inconvenient  to  walk  there  two  abreast  and  arm  in  arm. 
Mr.  George  therefore  soon  proposes  to  walk  singly.  But  Mr. 
Bucket,  who  cannot  make  up  his  mind  to  relinquish  his 
'  friendly  hold,  replies,  "Wait  half  a  minute,  George.  I  should 
wish  to  speak  to  you  first.  Immediately  afterwards,  he  twists 
him  into  a  public-house  and  into  a  parlor,  where  he  confronts 
him,  and  claps  his  own  back  against  the  door. 

"Now,  George,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "Duty  is  duty,  and 
friendship  is  friendship.  I  never  want  the  two  to  clash,  if  I 
can  help  it.  I  have  endeavored  to  make  things  pleasant 
to-night,  and  I  put  it  to  you  whether  I  have  done  it  or  not. 
You  must  consider  yourself  in  custody,  George." 

"Custody?  What  for?"  returns  the  trooper,  thunder- 
struck. 

"  Now,  George,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  urging  a  sensible  view  of 
the  case  upon  him  with  his  fat  forefinger,  "duty,  as  you 
know  very  well,  is  one  thing,  and  conversation  is  another. 
Et's  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  any  observations  you  may 
make  will  be  liable  to  be  used  against  you.  Therefore, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


George,  be  careful  what  you  say.    You  don't  happen  to  have 
heard  of  a  murder  ?  " 
"  Murder  !  " 

"  Now,  George/'  says  Mr.  Bucket,  keeping  his  forefinger  in 
an  impressive  state  of  action,  "  bear  in  mind  what  I've  said  to 
you.  I  ask  you  nothing.  You've  been  in  low  spirits  this  after- 
noon.   I  say,  you  don't  happen  to  have  heard  of  a  murder." 

"  No.    Where  has  there  been  a  murder  ?  " 

"Now,  George,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "  don't  you  go  and  commit 
yourself.  I'm  a-going  to  tell  you  what  I  want  you  for.  There 
has  been  a  murder  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  —  gentleman  of  the 
name  of  Tulkinghorn.  He  was  shot  last  night.  I  want  you 
for  that." 

The  trooper  sinks  upon  a  seat  behind  him,  and  great  drops 
start  out  upon  his  forehead,  and  a  deadly  pallor  overspreads 
his  face. 

"  Bucket !  It's  not  possible  that  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  been  ■ 
killed,  and  that  you  suspect  me  ?  " 

"  George,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  keeping  his  forefinger  going, 
"  it  is  certainly  possible,  because  it's  the  case.    This  deed  was  j 
done  last  night  at  ten  o'clock.    Now,  you  know  where  you 
were  last  night  at  ten  o'clock,  and  you'll  be  able  to  prove  it 
no  doubt." 

"Last  night!  Last  night?"  repeats  the  trooper,  thought- \ 
fully.  Then  it  flashes  upon  him.  "Why,  great  Heaven,  I] 
was  there  last  night !  " 

"  So  I  have  understood,  George,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  with' 
great  deliberation.  "  So  I  have  understood.  Likewise  you've 
been  very  often  there.  You've  been  seen  hanging  about  the 
place,  and  you've  been  heard  more  than  once  in  a  wrangle 
with  him,  and  it's  possible  —  I  don't  say  it's  certainly  so 
mind  you,  but  it's  possible  —  that  he  may  have  been  heard  to 
call  you  a  threatening,  murdering,  dangerous  fellow." 

The  trooper  gasps  as  if  he  would  admit  it  all,  if  he  coulc 
speak. 

"  Now,  George,"  continues  Mr.  Bucket,  putting  his  hat  upon 
the  table,  with  an  air  of  business  rather  in  the  upholstery  way 
than  otherwise,  "  My  wish  is,  as  it  has  been  all  the  evening, 
to  make  things  pleasant.    I  tell  you  plainly  there's  a  reward 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


263 


out,  of  a  hundred  guineas,  offered  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet.  You  and  me  have  always  been  pleasant  together; 
but  I  have  got  a  duty  to  discharge ;  and  if  that  hundred 
guineas  is  to  be  made,  it  may  as  well  be  made  by  me  as  by 
another  man.  On  all  of  which  accounts,  I  should  hope  it  was 
clear  to  you  that  I  must  have  you,  and  that  I'm  damned  if  I 
don't  have  you.  Am  I  to  call  in  any  assistance,  or  is  the 
trick  done  ?  " 

Mr.  George  has  recovered  himself,  and  stands  up  like  a 
soldier.    "  Come,"  he  says  ;  "  I  am  ready." 

"  George,"  continues  Mr.  Bucket,  "  wait  a  bit ! "  With  his 
upholsterer  manner,  as  if  the  trooper  were  a  window  to  be 
fitted  up,  he  takes  from  his  pocket  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  "  This 
is  a  serious  charge,  George,  and  such  is  my  duty." 

The  trooper  flushes  angrily,  and  hesitates  a  moment ;  but 
holds  out  his  two  hands,  clasped  together,  and  says,  "  There  ! 
Put  them  on  !  " 

Mr.  Bucket  adjusts  them  in  a  moment.  "  How  do  you  find 
them  ?  Are  they  comfortable  ?  If  not,  say  so,  for  I  wish  to 
make  things  as  pleasant  as  is  consistent  with  my  duty,  and 
I've  got  another  pair  in  my  pocket."  This  remark  he  offers 
like  a  most  respectable  tradesman,  anxious  to  execute  an  order 
neatly,  and  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of  his  customer.  "  They'll 
do  as  they  are  ?  Very  well !  Now,  you  see  George  ;  "  he 
takes  a  cloak  from  a  corner,  and  begins  adjusting  it  about  the 
trooper's  neck ;  "  I  was  mindful  of  your  feelings  when  I  come 
out,  and  brought  this  on  purpose.   There  !   Who's  the  wiser  ?  " 

"  Only  I,"  returns  the  trooper ;  "  but  as  I  know  it,  do  me 
one  more  good  turn,  and  pull  my  hat  over  my  eyes." 

"  Eeally,  though  !  Do  you  mean  it  ?  Ain't  it  a  pity  ?  It 
looks  so." 

"I  can't  look  chance  men  in  the  face  with  these  things  on," 
Mr.  George  hurriedly  replies.  "  Do  for  God's  sake,  pull  my 
hat  forward." 

So  strongly  entreated,  Mr.  Bucket  complies,  puts  his  own 
hat  on,  and  conducts  his  prize  into  the  streets  ;  the  trooper 
id ;troliing  on  as  steadily  as  usual,  though  with  his  head  less 
erect;  and  Mr.  Bucket  steering  him  with  his  elbow  over  the 
crossings  and  up  the  turnings. 


264 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Esther's  narrative. 

It  happened  that  when  I  came  home  from  Deal,  I  found  a 
note  from  Caddy  Jellyby  (as  we  always  continued  to  call  her), 
informing  me  that  her  health,  which  had  been  for  some  time 
very  delicate,  was  worse,  and  that  she  would  be  more  glad 
than  she  could  tell  me  if  I  would  go  to  see  her.  It  was  a 
note  of  a  few  lines,  written  from  the  couch  on  which  she  lay, 
and  enclosed  to  me  in  another  from  her  husband,  in  which  he ! 
seconded  her  entreaty  with  much  solicitude.  Caddy  was  now 
the  mother,  and  I  the  godmother,  of  such  a  poor  little  baby  — 
such  a  tiny  old-faced  mite,  with  a  countenance  that  seemed' 
to  be  scarcely  anything  but  cap-border,  and  a  little  lean,  long-, 
fingered  hand,  always  clinched  under  its  chin.  It  would  lie 
in  this  attitude  all  day,  with  its  bright  specks  of  eyes  open,; 
wondering  (as  I  used  to  imagine)  how  it  came  to  be  so  small* 
and  weak.  Whenever  it  was  moved,  it  cried ;  but  at  all  other j 
times  it  was  so  patient,  that  the  sole  desire  of  its  life  appeared'! 
to  be,  to  lie  quiet  and  think.  It  had  curious  little  dark  veins 
in  its  face,  and  curious  little  dark  marks  under  its  eyes,  like 
faint  remembrances  of  poor  Caddy's  inky  days  ;  and  altogether, 
to  those  who  were  not  used  to  it,  it  was  quite  a  piteous  little 
sight. 

But  it  was  enough  for  Caddy  that  she  was  used  to  it.  The 
projects  with  which  she  beguiled  her  illness,  for  little  Esther's 
education,  and  little  Esther's  marriage,  and  even  for  her  own 
old  age,  as  the  grandmother  of  little  Esther's  little  Esthers, 
were  so  prettily  expressive  of  devotion  to  this  pride  of  her 
life,  that  I  should  be  tempted  to  recall  some  of  them,  but  for 
the  timely  remembrance  that  I  am  getting  on  irregularly  as 
it  is. 

To  return  to  the  letter.    Caddy  had  a  superstition  about 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


265 


me,  which  had  been  strengthening  in  her  mind  ever  since  that 
night  long  ago,  when  she  had  lain  asleep  with  her  head  in  my 
lap.  She  almost  —  I  think  I  must  say  quite  —  believed  that 
I  did  her  good  whenever  I  was  near  her.  Now,  although  this 
was  such  a  fancy  of  the  affectionate  girl's  that  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  mention  it,  still  it  might  have  all  the  force  of  a 
fact  when  she  was  really  ill.  Therefore  I  set  off  to  Caddy, 
with  my  Guardian's  consent,  post-haste  ;  and  she  and  Prince 
made  so  much  of  me,  that  there  never  was  anything  like  it. 

Next  day  I  went  again  to  sit  with  her,  and  next  day  I  went 
again.  It  was  a  very  easy  journey;  for  I  had  only  to  rise  a 
little  earlier  in  the  morning,  and  keep  my  accounts,  and 
attend  to  housekeeping  matters  before  leaving  home.  But 
.when  I  had  made  these  three  visits,  my  Guardian  said'to  me, 
on  my  return  at  night,  — 

"Now,  little  woman,  little  woman,  this  will  never  do. 
Constant  dropping  will  wear  away  a  stone,  and  constant 
coaching  will  wear  out  a  Dame  Durden.  We  will  go  to 
London  for  a  while,  and  take  possession  of  our  old  lodgings." 
^  "Not  for  me,  dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  "for  I  never  feel 
tired  ;  "  which  was  strictly  true.  I  was  only  too  happy  to  be 
in  such  request. 

"For  me  then,"  returned  my  Guardian;  "or  for  Ada,  or 
for  both  of  us.    It  is  somebody's  birthday  to-morrow,  I  think." 

"  Truly  I  think  it  is,"  said  I,  kissing  my  darling,  who  would 
be  twenty-one  to-morrow. 

"  Well,"  observed  my  Guardian,  half  pleasantly,  half  seri- 
ously, "that's  a  great  occasion,  and  will  give  my  fair  cousin 
some  necessary  business  to  transact  in  assertion  of  her  inde- 
pendence, and  will  make  London  a  more  convenient  place  for 
all  of  us.  So  to  London  we  will  go.  That  being  settled, 
there  is  another  thing  — how  have  you  left  Caddy?" 

"Very  unwell,  Guardian.   -I  fear  it  will  be  some  time 
before  she  regains  her  health  and  strength." 

"What  do  you  call  some  time,  now  ?  "  asked  my  Guardian, 
thoughtfully.  J 

"Some  weeks,  I  am  afraid." 

"Ah  !  "  He  began  to  walk  about  the  room  with  his  hands 
n  his  pockets,  showing  that  he  had  been  thinking  as  much, 


266 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Now  what  do  you  say  about  her  doctor?  Is  he  a  good 
doctor,  my  love  ?  " 

I  felt  obliged  to  confess  that  I  knew  nothing  to  the  con- 
trary ;  but  that  Prince  and  I  had  agreed  only  that  evening, 
that  we  would  like  his  opinion  to  be  confirmed  by  some  one. 

"  Well,  you  know,"  returned  my  Guardian  quickly,  "  there's 
Woodcourt." 

I  had  not  meant  that,  and  was  rather  taken  by  surprise. 
For  a  moment,  all  that  I  had  had  in  my  mind  in  connection 
with  Mr.  Woodcourt  seemed  to  come  back  and  confuse  me. 

"  You  don't  object  to  him,  little  woman  ?  " 

"  Object  to  him,  Guardian  ?    Oh  no  !  " 

"  And  you  don't  think  the  patient  would  object  to  him  ?  "  4 

So  far  from  that,  I  had  no  doubt  of  her  being  prepared  to] 
have  a  great  reliance  on  him,  and  to  like  him  very  much.  I 
said  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  her  personally,  for  she  had 
seen  him  often  in  his  kind  attendance  on  Miss  Flite. 

"Very  good,"  said  my  Guardian.  "He  has  been  here 
to-day,  my  dear,  and  I  will  see  him  about  it  to-morrow." 

I  felt,  in  this  short  conversation  —  though  I  did  not  know 
how,  for  she  was  quiet,  and  we  interchanged  no  look  —  that 
my  dear  girl  well  remembered  how  merrily  she  had  clasped 
me  round  the  waist,  when  no  other  hands  than  Caddy's  had 
brought  me  the  little  parting  token.  This  caused  me  to  feel] 
that  I  ought  to  tell  her,  and  Caddy  too,  that  I  was  going  toj 
be  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House  ;  and  that  if  I  avoided  that 
disclosure  any  longer,  I  might  become  less  worthy  in  my  owl 
eyes  of  its  master's  love.  Therefore,  when  we  went  up-stairs,' 
and  had  waited  listening  until  the  clock  struck  twelve,  ii 
order  th^t  only  I  might  be  the  first  to  wish  my  darling  al| 
good  wishes  on  her  birthday,  and  to  take  her  to  my  heart 
set  before  her,  just  as  I  had  set  before  myself,  the  goodne 
and  honor  of  her  cousin  John,  and  the  happy  life  that  was 
store  for  me.  If  ever  my  darling  were  fonder  of  me  at  o 
time  than  at  another  in  all  our  intercourse,  she  was  surel 
fondest  of  me  that  night.  And  I  was  so  rejoiced  to  know 
and  so  comforted  by  the  sense  of  having  done  right,  in  cas 
iiig  this  last  idle  reservation  away,  that  I  was  ten  tim 
happier  than  I  had  been  before,    I  had  scarcely  thought  it 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


267 


reservation  a  few  hours  ago  ;  but  now  that  it  was  gone,  I  felt 
as  if  I  understood  its  nature  better. 

isext  day  we  went  to  London.  We  found  our  old  lodging 
vacant,  and  in  half  an  hour  were  quietly  established  there 
as  if  we  had  never  gone  away.  Mr.  Woodcourt  dined  with  us, 
to  celebrate  my  darling's  birthday,  and  we  were  as  pleasant 
as  we  could  be  with  the  great  blank  among  us  that  Richard's 
absence  naturally  made  on  such  an  occasion.  After  that  day 
I  was  for  some  weeks  —  eight  or  nine  as  I  remember  —  very 
much  with  Caddy ;  and  thus  it  fell  out  that  I  saw  less  of  Ada 
at  this  time  than  any  other  since  we  had  first  come  together, 
except  the  time  of  my  own  illness.  She  often  came  to 
Caddy's ;  but  our  function  there  was  to  amuse  and  cheer  her, 
and  we  did  not  talk  in  our  usual  confidential  manner.  When- 
ever I  went  home  at  night,  we  were  together ;  but  Caddy's 
rest  was  broken  by  pain,  and  I  often  remained  to  nurse  her. 

With  her  husband  and  her  poor  little  mite  of  a  baby  to 
love,  and  their  home  to  strive  for,  what  a  good  creature  Caddy 
was !  So  self-denying,  so  uncomplaining,  so  anxious  to  get 
well  on  their  account,  so  afraid  of  giving  trouble,  and  so 
thoughtful  of  the  unassisted  labors  of  her  husband  and  the 
comforts  of  old  Mr.  Turveydrop ;  I  had  never  known  the  best 
of  her  until  now.  And  it  seemed  so  curious  that  her  pale 
face  and  helpless  figure  should  be  lying  there  day  after  day, 
where  dancing  was  the  business  of  life ;  where  the  kit  and 
the  apprentices  began  early  every  morning  in  the  ballroom, 
and  where  the  untidy  little  boy  waltzed  by  himself  in  the 
kitchen  all  the  afternoon. 

At  Caddy's  request,  I  took  the  supreme  direction  of  her 
apartment,  trimmed  it  up,  and  pushed  her,  couch  and  all  into 
a  lighter  and  more  airy  and  more  cheerful  corner  than  she 
had  yet  occupied ;  then,  every  day,  when  we  were  in  our 
neatest  array,  I  used  to  lay  my  small  small  namesake  in  her 
arms,  and  sit  down  to  chat  or  work,  or  read  to  her.  It  was  at 
one  of  the  first  of  these  quiet  times  that  I  told  Caddy  about 
Bleak  House. 

We  had  other  visitors  besides  Ada.  First  of  all,  we  had 
Prince,  who  in  his  hurried  intervals  of  teaching  used  to  come 
softly  in  and  sit  softly  down,  with  a  face  of  loving  anxiety 


268 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


for  Caddy  and  the  very  little  child.  Whatever  Caddy's  con- 
dition really  was,  she  never  failed  to  declare  to  Prince  that 
she  was  all  but  well  —  which  I,  Heaven  f orgive  me,  never 
failed  to  confirm.  This  would  put  Prince  in  such  good  spirits, 
that  he  would  sometimes  take  the  kit  from  his  pocket  and 
play  a  chord  or  two  to  astonish  the  baby  —  which  I  never 
knew  it  to  do  in  the  least  degree,  for  my  tiny  namesake  never 
noticed  it  at  all. 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Jelly  by.  She  would  come  occasionally 
with  her  usual  distraught  manner  and  sit  calmly  looking 
miles  beyond  her  grandchild,  as  if  her  attention  were  absorbed 
by  a  young  Borri'oboolan  on  its  native  shores.  As  bright- 
eyed  as  ever,  as  serene,  and  as  untidy,  she  would  say,  "  Well, 
Caddy,  child,  and  how  do  you  do  to-day  ?  "  And  then  would 
sit  amiably  smiling,  and  taking  no  notice  of  the  reply ;  or 
would  sweetly  glide  off  into  a  calculation  of  the  number  of 
letters  she  had  lately  received  and  answered,  or  of  the  coffee- 
bearing  power  of  Borrioboola-Gha.  This  she  would  always 
do  with  a  serene  contempt  for  our  limited  sphere  of  action, 
not  to  be  disguised. 

Then  there  was  old  Mr.  Turveydrop,  who  was  from  morning 
to  night  and  from  night  to  morning  the  subject  of  innumera- 
ble precautions.  If  the  baby  cried,  it  was  nearly  stifled  lest 
the  noise  should  make  him  uncomfortable.  If  the  fire  wanted 
stirring  in  the  night,  it  was  surreptitiously  done  lest  his  rest 
should  be  broken.  If  Caddy  required  any  little  comfort  that 
the  house  contained,  she  first  carefully  discussed  whether  he 
was  likely  to  require  it  too.  In  return  for  this  consideration, 
he  would  come  into  the  room  once  a  day,  all  but  blessing  it  — 
showing  a  condescension,  and  a  patronage,  and  a  grace  of 
manner,  in  dispensing  the  light  of  his  high-shouldered  pres- 
ence, from  which  I  might  have  supposed  him  (if  I  had  not 
know  better)  to  have  been  the  benefactor  of  Caddy's  life. 

"  My  Caroline,"  he  would  say,  making  the  nearest  approach 
that  he  could  to  bending  over  her.  "  Tell  me  that  you  are 
better  to-day." 

"  0  much  better,  thank  you,  Mr.  Turveydrop,"  Caddy 
would  reply. 

"  Delighted  !  Enchanted  !    And  our  dear  Miss  Summerson. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


269 


She  is  not  quite  prostrated  by  fatigue  ? "    Here  he  would 
crease  up  his  eyelids,  and  kiss  his  fingers  to  me ;  though 
I  am  happy  to  say  he  had  ceased  to  be  particular  in  his  atten- 
tions, since  I  had  been  so  altered. 
"  Not  at  all/'  I  would  assure  him. 

"  Charming !  We  must  take  care  of  our  dear  Caroline, 
Miss  Summerson.  We  must  spare  nothing  that  will  restore 
her.  We  must  nourish  her.  My  dear  Caroline  ;  "  he  would 
turn  to  his  daughter-in-law  with  infinite  generosity  and  pro- 
tection ;  "  want  for  nothing,  my  love.  Frame  a  wish  and 
gratify  it,  my  daughter.  Everything  this  house  contains, 
everything  my  room  contains,  is  at  your  service,  my  dear. 
Do  not,"  he  would  sometimes  add,  in  a  burst  of  Deportment, 
"  even  allow  my  simple  requirements  to  be  considered,  if  they 
should  at  any  time  interfere  with  your  own,  my  Caroline. 
Your  necessities  are  greater  than  mine." 

He  had  established  such  a  long  prescriptive  right  to  this 
Deportment  (his  son's  inheritance  from  his  mother),  that  I 
several  times  knew  both  Caddy  and  her  husband  to  be  melted 
to  tears  by  these  affectionate  self-sacrifices. 

"  Nay,  my  dears,"  he  would  remonstrate  ;  and  when  I  saw 
Caddy's  thin  arm  about  his  fat  neck  as  he  said  it,  I  would  be 
melted  too,  though  not  by  the  same  process ;  "  Nay,  nay ! 
I  have  promised  never  to  leave  ye.  Be  dutiful  and  affection- 
ate towards  me,  and  I  ask  no  other  return.  Now,  bless  ye ! 
I  am  going  to  the  Park." 

He  would  take  the  air  there,  presently,  and  get  an  appetite 
for  his  hotel  dinner.  I  hope  I  do  old  Mr.  Turveydrop  no 
wrong ;  but  I  never  saw  any  better  traits  in  him  than  these  I 
faithfully  record,  except  that  he  certainly  conceived  a  liking 
for  Peepy,  and  would  take  the  child  out  walking  with  great 
pomp  —  always,  on  those  occasions,  sending  him  home  before 
he  went  to  dinner  himself,  and  occasionally  with  a  halfpenny 
in  his  pocket.  But,  even  this  disinterestedness  was  attended 
with  no  inconsiderable  cost,  to  my  knowledge;  for  before 
Peepy  was  sufficiently  decorated  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with 
the  professor  of  Deportment,  he  had  to  be  newly  dressed,  at 
the  expense  of  Caddy  and  her  husband,  from  top  to  toe. 

Last  of  our  visitors,  there  was  Mr.  Jellyby.    Eeally  when 


270 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


he  used  to  come  in  of  an  evening,  and  ask  Caddy  in  his  meek 
voice  how  she  was,  and  then  sit  down  with  his  head  against 
the  wall,  and  make  no  attempt  to  say  anything  more,  I  liked 
him  very  much.  If  he  found  me  bustling  about,  doing  any 
little  thing,  he  sometimes  half  took  his  coat  off,  as  if  with  an 
intention  of  helping  by  a  great  exertion ;  but  he  never  got 
any  further.  His  sole  occupation  was  to  sit  with  his  head 
against  the  wall,  looking  hard  at  the  thoughtful  baby ;  and  I 
could  not  quite  divest  my  mind  of  a  fancy  that  they  under- 
stood one  another. 

I  have  not  counted  Mr.  Woodcourt  among  our  visitors, 
because  he  was  now  Caddy's  regular  attendant.  She  soon 
began  to  improve  under  his  care  ;  but  he  was  so  gentle,  so 
skilful,  so  unwearying  in  the  pains  he  took,  that  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at,  I  am  sure.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Wood- 
court  during  this  time,  though  not  so  much  as  might  be  sup- 
posed ;  for,  knowing  Caddy  to  be  safe  in  his  hands,  I  often 
slipped  home  at  about  the  hours  when  he  was  expected.  We 
frequently  met,  notwithstanding.  I  was  quite  reconciled  to 
myself  now ;  but  I  still  felt  glad  to  think  that  he  was  sorry 
for  me,  and  he  still  was  sorry  for  me  I  believed.  He  helped 
Mr.  Badger  in  his  professional  engagements,  which  were 
numerous  ;  and  had  as  yet  no  settled  projects  for  the  future. 

It  was  when  Caddy  began  to  recover,  that  I  began  to 
notice  a  change  in  my  dear  girl.  I  cannot  say  how  it  first 
presented  itself  to  me ;  because  I  observed  it  in  many  slight 
particulars,  which  were  nothing  in  themselves,  and  only 
became  something  when  they  were  pieced  together.  But  I 
made  it  out,  by  putting  them  together,  that  Ada  was  not  so 
frankly  cheerful  with  me  as  she  used  to  be.  Her  tenderness 
for  me  was  as  loving  and  true  as  ever ;  I  did  not  for  a  moment 
doubt  that;  but  there  was  a  quiet  sorrow  about  her  which 
she  did  not  confide  to  me,  and  in  which  I  traced  some  hidden 
regret. 

Now  I  could  not  understand  this ;  and  I  was  so  anxious 
for  the  happiness  of  my  own  pet,  that  it  caused  me  some 
uneasiness,  and  set  me  thinking  often.    At  length,  feelin 
sure  that  Ada  suppressed  this  something  from  me,  lest  it 
should  make  me  unhappy  too,  it  came  into  my  head  that  she 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


9  271 


was  a  little  grieved  —  for  me  —  by  what  I  had  told  her  about 
Bleak  House. 

How  I  persuaded  myself  that  this  was  likely,  I  don't  know. 
I  had  no  idea  that  there  was  any  selfish  reference  in  my  doing 
so.  I  was  not  grieved  for  myself :  I  was  quite  contented  and 
quite  happy.  Still,  that  Ada  might  be  thinking  —  for  me, 
though  I  had  abandoned  all  such  thoughts  —  of  what  once 
was,  but  was  now  all  changed,  seemed  so  easy  to  believe,  that 
I  believed  it. 

What  could  I  do  to  reassure  my  darling  (I  considered 
then)  and  show  her  that  I  had  no  such  feelings  ?  Well ! 
I  could  only  be  as  brisk  and  busy  as  possible  ;  and*  that,  I 
had  tried  to  be  all  along.  However,  as  Caddy's  illness  had 
certainly  interfered,  more  or  less,  with  my  home  duties  — 
though  I  had  always  been  there  in  the  morning  to  make  my 
Guardian's  breakfast,  and  he  had  a  hundred  times  laughed, 
and  said  there  must  be  two  little  women  for  his  little  woman 
was  never  missing  —  I  resolved  to  be  doubly  diligent  and  gay. 
So  I  went  about  the  house,  humming  all  the  tunes  I  knew ; 
and  I  sat  working  and  working  in  a  desperate  manner,  and  I 
talked  and  talked,  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

And  still  there  was  the  same  shade  between  me  and  my 
darling. 

"  So,  Dame  Trot,"  observed  my  Guardian  shutting  up  his 
book,  one  night  when  we  were  all  there  together ;  "  so, 
Woodcourt  has  restored  Caddy  Jellyby  to  the  full  enjoyment 
of  life  again  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "and  to  be  repaid  by  such  gratitude  as 
hers,  is  to  be  made  rich,  Guardian." 

"  I  wish  it  was,"  he  returned,  "  with  all  my  heart." 

So  did  I  too,  for  that  matter.    I  said  so. 

"  Ay  !  We  would  make  him  as  rich  as  a  Jew,  if  we  knew 
how.    Would  we  not,  little  woman  ?  " 

I  laughed  as  I  worked,  and  replied  that  I  was  not  sure 
about  that,  for  it  might  spoil  him,  and  he  might  not  be  so 
useful,  and  there  might  be  many  who  could  ill  spare  him. 
As  Miss  Flite,  and  Caddy  herself,  and  many  others. 

"True,"  said  my  Guardian.  "I  had  forgotten  that.  But 
we  would  agree  to  make  him  rich  enough  to  live,  I  suppose  ? 


272 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Bich  enough  to  work  with  tolerable  peace  of  mind  ?  Eich 
enough  to  have  his  own  happy  home,  and  his  own  household 
gods  —  and  household  goddess  too,  perhaps  ?  " 

That  was  quite  another  thing,  I  said.  We  must  all  agree 
in  that. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Guardian.  "All  of  us.  I  have  a 
great  regard  for  Woodcourt,  a  high  esteem  for  him ;  and  I 
have  been  sounding  him  delicately  about  his  plans.  It  is 
difficult  to  offer  aid  to  an  independent  man,  with  that  just 
kind  of  pride  which  he  possesses.  And  yet  I  would  be  glad 
to  do  it  if  I  might,  or  if  I  knew  how.  He  seems  half  inclined 
for  another  voyage.  But  that  appears  like  casting  such  a 
man  away." 

"  It  might  open  a  new  world  to  him,"  said  I. 

"  So  it  might,  little  woman,"  my  Guardian  assented.  "  I 
doubt  if  he  expects  much  of  the  old  world.  Do  you  know  I 
have  fancied  that  he  sometimes  feels  some  particular  dis- 
appointment, or  misfortune,  encountered  in  it.  You  never 
heard  of  anything  of  that  sort  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Humph,"  said  my  Guardian.  "I  am  mistaken,  I  dare 
say." 

As  there  was  a  little  pause  here,  which  I  thought,  for  my 
dear  girl's  satisfaction,  had  better  be  filled  up,  I  hummed  an 
air  as  I  worked  which  was  a  favorite  with  my  Guardian. 

"And  do  you  think  Mr.  Woodcourt  will  make  another 
voyage  ? "  I  asked  him,  when  I  had  hummed  it  quietly  all 
through. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  think,  my  dear,  but  I  should 
say  it  was  likely  at  present  that  he  will  give  a  long  trial  to 
another  country." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  take  the  best  wishes  of  all  our  hearts 
with  him  wherever  he  goes,"  said  I ;  "  and  though  they  are 
not  riches,  he  will  never  be  the  poorer  for  them,  Guardian,  at 
least." 

"Never,  little  woman,"  he  replied. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  usual  place,  which  was  now  beside  my 
Guardian's  chair.  That  had  not  been  my  usual  place  before 
the  letter,  but  it  was  now.    I  looked  up  at  Ada,  who  was 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


273 


sitting  opposite ;  and  I  saw,  as  she  looked  at  me,  that  her 
eyes  were  rilled  with  tears,  and  that  tears  were  falling  down 
her  face.  I  felt  that  I  had  only  to  be  placid  and  merry,  once 
for  all  to  undeceive  my  dear,  and  set  her  loving  heart  at  rest. 
I  really  was  so,  and  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  myself. 

So  I  made  my  sweet  girl  lean  upon  my  shoulder  —  how 
little  thinking  what  was  heavy  on  her  mind  !  —  and  I  said  she 
was  not  quite  well,  and  put  my  arm  about  her,  and  took  her 
up-stairs.  When  we  were  in  our  own  room,  and  when  she 
might  perhaps  have  told  me  what  I  was  so  unprepared  to 
hear,  I  gave  her  no  encouragement  to  confide  in  me ;  I  never 
thought  she  stood  in  need  of  it. 

"  0  my  dear  good  Esther,"  said  Ada,  "  if  I  could  only 
make  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  you  and  my  cousin  John,  when 
you  are  together  !  " 

"  Why,  my  love  ! "  I  remonstrated.  "  Ada  ?  why  should 
you  not  speak  to  us  !" 

Ada  only  drooped  her  head  and  pressed  me  closer  to  her 
heart. 

"You  surely  don't  forget,  my  beauty,"  said  I,  smiling, 
"what  quiet  old-fashioned  people  we  are,  and  how  I  have 
settled  down  to  be  the  discreetest  of  dames  ?  You  don't  for- 
get how  happily  and  peacefully  my  life  is  all  marked  out  for 
me,  and  by  whom  ?  I  am  certain  that  you  don't  forget  by 
what  a  noble  character,  Ada.    That  can  never  be." 

"No,  never,  Esther." 

"Why,  then,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "there  can  be  nothing 
amiss  —  and  why  should  you  not  speak  to  us  !  " 

"  Nothing  amiss,  Esther  £-"  returned  Ada.  "  0  when  I 
think  of  all  these  years,  and  of  his  fatherly  care  and  kind- 
ness, and  of  the  old  relations  among  us,  and  of  you,  what 
shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ! " 

I  looked  at  my  child  in  some  wonder,  but  I  thought  it 
better  not  to  answer,  otherwise  than  by  cheering  her ;  and  so 
I  turned  off  into  many  little  recollections  of  our  life  together, 
and  prevented  her  from  saying  more.  When  she  lay  down  to 
sleep,  and  not  before,  I  returned  to  my  Guardian  to  say  good- 
night ;  and  then  I  came  back  to  Ada,  and  sat  near  her  for  a 
little  while. 

VOL.  II. 


274 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


She  was  asleep,  and  I  thought  as  I  looked  at  her  that  she 
was  a  little  changed.  I  had  thought  so  more  than  once 
lately.  I  could  not  decide,  even  looking  at  her  while  she  was 
unconscious,  how  she  was  changed;  but  something  in  the 
familiar  beauty  of  her  face  looked  different  to  me.  My  Guard- 
ian's old  hopes  of  her  and  Eichard  arose  sorrowfully  in  my 
mind,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  She  has  been  anxious  about 
him,"  and  I  wondered  how  that  love  would  end. 

When  I  had  come  home  from  Caddy's  while  she  was  ill,  I 
had  often  found  Ada  at  work,  and  she  had  always  put  her 
work  away,  and  I  had  never  known  what  it  was.  Some  of  it 
now  lay  in  a  drawer  near  her,  which  was  not  quite  closed.  I 
did  not  open  the  drawer ;  but  I  still  rather  wondered  what  the 
work  could  be,  for  it  was  evidently  nothing  for  herself. 

And  I  noticed  as  I  kissed  my  dear,  that  she  lay  with  one 
hand  under  her  pillow  so  that  it  was  hidden. 

How  much  less  amiable  I  must  have  been  than  they  thought 
me,  how  much  less  amiable  than  I  thought  myself,  to  be  so 
preoccupied  with  my  own  cheerfulness  and  contentment,  as  to 
think  that  it  only  rested  with  me  to  put  my  dear  girl  right, 
and  set  her  mind  at  peace  ! 

But  I  lay  down,  self-deceived,  in  that  belief.  And  I  awoke 
in  it  next  day,  to  find  that  there  was  still  the  same  shade 
between  me  and  my  darling. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


275 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ENLIGHTENED. 

When  Mr.  Woodcourt  arrived  in  London,  he  went,  that 
very  same  day,  to  Mr.  Vholes's  in  Symond's  Inn.  For  he 
never  once,  from  the  moment  when  I  entreated  him  to  be  a 
friend  to  Richard,  neglected  or  forgot  his  promise.  He  had 
told  me  that  he  accepted  the  charge  as  a  sacred  trust,  and  he 
was  ever  true  to  it  in  that  spirit. 

He  found  Mr.  Vholes  in  his  office,  and  informed  Mr.  Vholes 
of  his  agreement  with  Richard,  that  he  should  call  there  to 
learn  his  address. 

"Just  so,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vholes.  "Mr.  C's  address  is  not 
a  hundred  miles  from  here,  sir,  Mr.  C's  address  is  not  a 
hundred  miles  from  here.    Would  you  take  a  seat,  sir." 

Mr.  Woodcourt  thanked  Mr.  Vholes,  but  he  had  no  business 
with  him  beyond  what  he  had  mentioned. 

"Just  so,  sir.  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  still  quietly 
insisting  on  the  seat  by  not  giving  the  address,  "that  you 
have  influence  with  Mr.  C.  Indeed,  I  am  aware  that  you 
have." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it  myself,"  returned  Mr.  Woodcourt ; 
"  but  I  suppose  you  know  best." 

"  Sir,"  rejoined  Mr.  Vholes,  self-contained,  as  usual,  voice 
and  all,  "  it  is  a  part  of  my  professional  duty  to  know  best. 
It  is  a  part  of  my  professional  duty,  to  study  and  to  understand 
a  gentleman  who  confides  his  interests  to  me.  In  my  pro- 
fessional duty  I  shall  not  be  wanting,  sir,  if  I  know  it.  I 
may,  with  the  best  intentions,  be  wanting  in  it  without  know- 
ing it ;  but  not  if  I  know  it,  sir." 

Mr.  Woodcourt  again  mentioned  the  address. 

"Give  me  leave,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vholes.  "Bear  with  me 
for  a  moment.  Sir,  Mr.  C  is  playing  for  a  considerable  stake, 
and  cannot  play  without  —  need  I  say  what  ?" 


276 


BLEAK  HOUSE 


"  Money,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  Sir/'  said  Mr.  Vholes,  "  to  be  honest  with  you  (honesty 
being  my  golden  rule,  whether  I  gain  by  it  or  lose,  and  I 
find  that  I  generally  lose),  money  is  the  word.  Now,  sir, 
upon  the  chances  of  Mr.  C's  game  I  express  to  you  no  opinion, 
no  opinion.  It  might  be  highly  impolitic  in  Mr.  C,  after 
playing  so  long  and  so  high,  to  leave  off,  it  might  be  the 
reverse.  I  say  nothing.  No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  bringing 
his  hand  flat  down  upon  his  desk,  in  a  positive  manner, 
"  nothing." 

"You  seem  to  forget,"  returned  Mr.  Woodcourt,  "that  I 
ask  you  to  say  nothing,  and  have  no  interest  in  anything  you 
say." 

"Pardon  me,  sir!"  retorted  Mr.  Vholes,  "you  do  yourself 
an  injustice.  No,  sir!  Pardon  me!  You  shall  not  —  shall 
not  in  my  office,  if  I  know  it  —  do  yourself  an  injustice.  You 
are  interested  in  anything,  and  in  everything,  that  relates  to 
your  friend.  I  know  human  nature  much  better,  sir,  than  to 
admit  for  an  instant  that  a  gentleman  of  your  appearance  is 
not  interested  in  whatever  concerns  his  friend." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Woodcourt,  "  that  may  be.  I  am  par- 
ticularly interested  in  his  address." 

("The  number,  sir,")  said  Mr.  Vholes,  parenthetically, 
("  I  believe  I  have  already  mentioned.)  If  Mr.  C  is  to  con- 
tinue to  play  for  this  considerable  stake,  sir,  he  must  have 
funds.  Understand  me  !  There  are  funds  in  hand  at  present. 
I  ask  for  nothing;  there  are  funds  in  hand.  But,  for  the 
onward  play,  more  funds  must  be  provided ;  unless  Mr.  C  is 
to  throw  away  what  he  has  already  ventured  —  which  is  wholly 
and  solely  a  point  for  his  consideration.  This,  sir,  I  take  the 
opportunity  of  stating  openly  to  you,  as  the  friend  of  Mr.  C. 
Without  funds,  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  appear  and  act  for 
Mr.  C,  to  the  extent  of  all  such  costs  as  are  safe  to  be  allowed 
out  of  the  estate :  not  beyond  that.  I  could  not  go  beyond 
that,  sir,  without  wronging  some  one.  I  must  either  wrong 
my  three  dear  girls  ;  or  my  venerable  father,  who  is  entirely 
dependent  on  me  —  in  the  Vale  of  Taunton ;  or  some  one. 
Whereas,  sir,  my  resolution  is  (call  it  weakness  or  folly  if 
you  please)  to  wrong  no  one.". 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


277 


Mr.  Woodcourt  rather  sternly  rejoined  that  he  was  glad  to 
hear  it. 

"  I  wish,  sir/'  said  Mr.  Vholes,  "  to  leave  a  good  name 
behind  me.  Therefore,  I  take  every  opportunity  of  openly 
stating  to  a  friend  of  Mr.  C,  how  Mr.  C  is  situated.  As  to 
myself,  sir,  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  If  I  under- 
take to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  I  do  it,  and  I  earn  what 
I  get.  I  am  here  for  that  purpose.  My  name  is  painted  on 
the  door  outside,  with  that  object." 

"  And  Mr.  Carstone's  address,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes,  "  as  I  believe  I  have  already 
mentioned,  it  is  next  door.  On  the  second  story  you  will  find 
Mr.  C's  apartments.  Mr.  C  desires  to  be  near  his  professional 
adviser ;  and  I  am  far  from  objecting,  for  I  court  inquiry." 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Woodcourt  wished  Mr.  Vholes  good-day,  and 
went  in  search  of  Eichard,  the  change  in  whose  appearance  he 
began  to  understand  now  buff  too  well. 

He  found  him  in  a  dull  room,  fadedly  furnished ;  much  as 
I  had  found  him  in  his  barrack-room  but  a  little  while  before, 
except  that  he  was  not  writing,  but  was  sitting  with  a  book 
before  him,  from  which  his  eyes  and  thoughts  were  far  astray. 
As  the  door  chanced  to  be  standing  open,  Mr.  Woodcourt  was 
in  his  presence  for  some  moments  without  being  perceived ;  and 
he  told  me  that  he  never  could  forget  the  haggardness  of  his 
face,  and  the  dejection  of  his  manner,  before  he  was  aroused 
from  his  dream. 

"  Woodcourt,  my  dear  fellow  !  "  cried  Eichard,  starting  up 
with  extended  hands,  "you  come  upon  my  vision  like  a 
ghost." 

"A  friendly  one,"  he  replied,  "and  only  waiting,  as  they 
say  ghosts  do,  to  be  addressed.  How  does  the  mortal  world 
go  ?  "    They  were  seated  now,  near  together. 

"  Badly  enough,  and  slowly  enough/'  said  Eichard ;  "  speak- 
ing at  least  for  my  part  of  it." 

"  What  part  is  that  ?  " 

"  The  Chancery  part." 

"  I  never  heard,"  returned  Mr.  Woodcourt,  shaking  his  head, 
"  of  its  going  well  yet." 

"Nor  I/'  said  Eichard,  moodily.    "  Whoever  did  ?  " 


278 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


He  brightened  again  in  a  moment,  and  said,  with  his  natural 

openness,  — 

«  Woodcourt,  I  should  be  sorry  to  be  misunderstood  by  you, 
even  if  I  gained  by  it  in  your  estimation.  You  must  know 
that  I  have  done  no  good  this  long  time.  I  have  not  intended 
to  do  much  harm,  but  I  seem  to  have  been  capable  of  nothing 
else.  It  may  be  that  I  should  have  done  better  by  keeping 
out  of  the  net  into  which  my  destiny  has  worked  me ;  but  I 
think  not,  though  I  dare  say  you  will  soon  hear,  if  you  have 
not  already  heard,  a  very  different  opinion.  To  make  short 
of  along  story,  I  am  afraid  I  have  wanted  an  object;  but  I 
have  an  object  now  —  or  it  has  me  —  and  it  is  too  late  to  dis- 
cuss it.    Take  me  as  I  am,  and  make  the  best  of  me." 

"  A  bargain,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  "  Do  as  much  by  me  in 
return." 

"  Oh  !  You,"  returned  Eichard,  "  you  can  pursue  your  art 
for  its  own  sake ;  and  can  put  'your  hand  upon  the  plough, 
and  never  turn ;  and  can  strike  a  purpose  out  of  anything. 
You  and  I  are  very  different  creatures."  ! 

He  spoke  regretfully,  and  lapsed  for  a  moment  into  his 
weary  condition. 

«  Well,  well ! "  he  cried,  shaking  it  off,  "  everything  has  an 
end.    We  shall  see  !    So  you  will  take  me  as  I  am,  and  make  1 
the  best  of  me  ?  "  j 

"Ay!  indeed  I  will."    They  shook  hands  upon  it  laugh- 1 
ingly,  but  in  deep  earnestness.    I  can  answer,  for  one  of  them, 
with  my  heart  of  hearts. 

"  You  come  as  a  godsend,"  said  Eichard,  "  for  I  have  seen  ( 
nobody  here  yet  but  Vholes.  Woodcourt,  there  is  one  subject 
I  should  like  to  mention,  for  once  and  for  all,  in  the  beginning 
of  our  treaty.  You  can  hardly  make  the  best  of  me  if  I  don^t. 
You  know,  I  dare  say,  that  I  have  an  attachment  to  my  cousin 
Ada  ?  " 

Mr.  Woodcourt  replied  that  I  had  hinted  as  much  to 
him. 

"Now  pray,"  returned  Eichard,  "don't  think  me  a  heap  of 
selfishness.    Don't  suppose  that  I  am  splitting  my  head  and 
half  breaking  my  heart  over  this  miserable  Chancery  suit,  for  | 
my  own  rights  and  interests  alone.    Ada's  are  bound  up  with 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


279 


mine  ;  they  can't  be  separated ;  Vholes  works  for  both  of  us. 
Do  think  of  that !  " 

He  was  so  very  solicitous  on  this  head,  that  Mr.  Wood- 
court  gave  him  the  strongest  assurances  that  he  did  him  no 
injustice. 

"  You  see/'  said  Richard,  with  something  pathetic  in  his 
manner  of  lingering  on  the  point,  though  it  was  off-hand  and 
unstudied,  "to  an  upright  fellow  like  you,  bringing  a  friendly 
face  like  yours  here,  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  appearing 
selfish  and  mean.  I  want  to  see  Ada  righted,  Woodcourt,  as 
well  as  myself;  I  want  to  do  my  utmost  to  right  her,  as  well 
as  myself ;  I  venture  what  I  can  scrape  together  to  extricate 
her,  as  well  as  myself.    Do,  I  beseech  you,  think  of  that !  " 

Afterwards,  when  Mr.  Woodcourt  came  to  reflect  on  what 
had  passed,  he  was  so  very  much  impressed  by  the  strength  of 
Richard's  anxiety  on  this  point,  that  in  telling  me  generally 
of  his  first  visit  to  Symond's  Inn,  he  particularly  dwelt  upon 
it.  It  revived  a  fear  I  had  had  before,  that  my  dear  girl's 
little  property  would  be  absorbed  by  Mr.  Vholes,  and  that 
Richard's  justification  to  himself  would  be  sincerely  this.  It 
was  just  as  I  began  to  take  care  of  Caddy,  that  the  interview 
took  place  ;  and  I  now  return  to  the  time  when  Caddy  had 
recovered,  and  the  shade  was  still  between  me  and  my 
darling. 

I  proposed  to  Ada,  that  morning,  that  we  should  go  and  see 
Richard.  It  a  little  surprised  me  to  find  that  she  hesitated, 
and  was  not  so  radiantly  willing  as  I  had  expected. 

"  My  dear,"  said  I,  "  you  have  not  had  any  difference  with 
Richard  since  I  have  been  so  much  away  ?  " 

"No,  Esther." 

"  Not  heard  of  him,  perhaps  ?  "  said  I. 
"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Ada. 

Such  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  such  love  in  her  face.  I  could 
not  make  my  darling  out.  Should  I  go  to  Richard's  by  myself, 
I  said  ?  No,  Ada  thought  I  had  better  not  go  by  myself. 
Would  she  go  with  me  ?  Yes,  Ada  thought  she  had  better 
go  with  me.  Should  we  go  now  ?  Yes,  let  us  go  now.  Well, 
I  could  not  understand  my  darling,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes 
and  the  love  in  her  face  ! 


280 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


We  were  soon  equipped,  and  went  out.  It  was  a  sombre 
day,  and  drops  of  chill  rain  fell  at  intervals.  It  was  one  of 
those  colorless  days  when  everything  looks  heavy  and  harsh. 
The  houses  frowned  at  us,  the  dust  rose  at  us,  the  smoke 
swooped  at  us,  nothing  made  any  compromise  about  itself,  or 
wore  a  softened  aspect.  I  fancied  my  beautiful  girl  quite  out 
of  place  in  the  rugged  streets ;  and  I  thought  there  were  more 
funerals  passing  along  the  dismal  pavements  than  I  had  ever 
seen  before. 

We  had  first  to  find  out  Symond's  Inn.  We  were  going  to 
inquire  in  a  shop,  when  Ada  said  she  thought  it  was  near 
Chancery  Lane.  "  We  are  not  likely  to  be  far  out,  my  love, 
it  we  go  in  that  direction,"  said  I.  So  to  Chancery  Lane  we 
went ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  we  saw  it  written  up,  Symond's 
Inn. 

We  had  next  to  find  out  the  number.  "  Or  Mr.  Vholes's 
office  will  do,"  I  recollected,  "for  Mr.  Vholes's  office  is  next 
door."  Upon  which  Ada  said,  perhaps  that  was  Mr.  Vholes's 
office  in  the  corner  there.    And  it  really  was. 

Then  came  the  question,  which  of  the  two  next  doors  ?  I 
was  for  going  to  the  one,  and  my  darling  was  for  going  to  the 
other ;  and  my  darling  was  right  again.  So,  up  we  went  to 
the  second  story,  where  we  came  to  Richard's  name  in  great 
white  letters  on  a  hearse-like  panel. 

I  should  have  knocked,  but  Ada  said  perhaps  we  had  better 
turn  the  handle  and  go  in.  Thus  we  came  to  Richard,  poring 
over  a  table  covered  with  dusty  bundles  of  papers  which 
seemed  to  me  like  dusty  mirrors  reflecting  his  own  mind. 
Wherever  I  looked,  I  saw  the  ominous  words  that  ran  in  it, 
repeated.    Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce. 

He  received  us  very  affectionately,  and  we  sat  down.  "  If 
you  had  come  a  little  earlier,"  he  said,  "  you  would  have  found 
Woodcourt  here.  There  never  was  such  a  good  fellow  as 
Woodcourt  is.  He  finds  time  to  look  in  between  whiles, 
when  anybody  else  with  half  his  work  to  do  would  be  think- 
ing about  not  being  able  to  come.  And  he  is  so  cheery,  so 
fresh,  so  sensible,  so  earnest,  so  —  everything  that  I  am  not. 
that  the  place  brightens  whenever  he  comes,  and  darkens 
whenever  he  goes  again." 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


281 


"  God  bless  him,"  I  thought,  "  for  his  truth  to  me  !  " 

"  He  is  not  so  sanguine,  Ada,"  continued  Richard,  casting 
his  dejected  look  over  the  bundles  of  papers,  "as  Vholes  and 
I  are  usually ;  but  he  is  only  an  outsider,  and  is  not  in  the 
mysteries.  We  have  gone  into  them,  and  he  has  not.  He 
can't  be  expected  to  know  much  of  such  a  labyrinth." 

As  his  look  wandered  over  the  papers  again,  and  he  passed 
his  two  hands  over  his  head,  I  noticed  how  sunken  and  how 
large  his  eyes  appeared,  how  dry  his  lips  were,  and  how  his 
finger-nails  were  all  bitten  away. 

"  Is  this  a  healthy  place  to  live  in,  Richard,  do  you  think  ?  " 
said  I. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Minerva,"  answered  Richard,  with  his  old 
gay  laugh,  "  it  is  neither  a  rural  nor  a  cheerful  place  ;  and 
when  the  sun  shines  here,  you  may  lay  a  pretty  heavy  wager 
that  it  is  shining  brightly  in  an  open  spot.  But  it's  well 
enough  for  the  time.  It's  near  the  offices,  and  near  Vholes." 
"  Perhaps,"  I  hinted,  "  a  change  from  both  "  — 
"  —  Might  do  me  good  ?  "  said  Richard,  forcing  a  laugh 
as  he  finished  the  sentence.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder !  But  it 
can  only  come  in  one  way  now  —  in  one  of  two  ways,  I 
should  rather  say.  Either  the  suit  must  be  ended,  Esther, 
or  the  suitor.  But  it  shall  be  the  suit,  the  suit,  nrv  dear 
girl !  " 

These  latter  words  were  addressed  to  Ada,  who  was 
sitting  nearest  to  him.  Her  face  being  turned  away  from  me 
and  towards  him,  I  could  not  see  it. 

"  We  are  doing  very  well,"  pursued  Richard.  "  Vholes 
will  tell  you  so.  We  are  really  spinning  along.  Ask  Vholes. 
We  are  giving  them  no  rest.  Vholes  knows  all  their  windings 
and  turnings,  and  we  are  upon  them  everywhere.  We  have 
astonished  them  already.  We  shall  rouse  up  that  nest  of 
sleepers,  mark  my  words  ! " 

His  hopefulness  had  long  been  more  painful  to  me  than  his 
despondency ;  it  was  so  unlike  hopefulness,  had  something  so 
fierce  in  its  determination  to  be  it,  was  so  hungry  and  eager, 
and  yet  so  conscious  of  being  forced  and  unsustainable,  that  it 
had  long  touched  me  to  the  heart.  But  the  commentary  upon 
it  now  indelibly  written  in  his  handsome  face,  made  it  far 


282 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


more  distressing  than  it  used  to  be.  I  say  indelibly  ;  for  I 
felt  persuaded  that  if  the  fatal  cause  could  have  been  forever 
terminated,  according  to  his  brightest  visions,  in  that  same 
hour,  the  traces  of  the  premature  anxiety,  self-reproach,  and 
disappointment  it  had  occasioned  him,  would  have  remained 
upon  his  features  to  the  hour  of  his  death. 

"  The  sight  of  our  dear  little  woman,"  said  Kichard :  Ada 
still  remaining  silent  and  quiet :  "  is  so  natural  to  me,  and 
her  compassionate  face  is  so  like  the  face  of  old  days  "  — 

Ah  !    No,  no.    I  smiled  and  shook  my  head. 

"  —  So  exactly  like  the  face  of  old  days,"  said  Eichard  in 
his  cordial  voice,  and  taking  my  hand  with  the  brotherly 
regard  which  nothing  ever  changed,  "  that  I  can't  make 
pretences  with  her.  I  fluctuate  a  little  ;  that's  the  truth. 
Sometimes  I  hope,  my  dear,  and  sometimes  I — don't  quite 
despair,  but  nearly.  I  get,"  said  Eichard,  relinquishing  my 
hand  gently,  and  walking  across  the  room,  "  so  tired  !  " 

He  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down,  and  sunk  upon  the  sofa. 
"  I  get,"  he  repeated  gloomily,  "  so  tired.  It  is  such  weary 
weary  work !  " 

He  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  saying  these  words  in  a  medi- 
tative voice,  and  looking  at  the  ground,  when  my  darling 
rose,  put  off  her  bonnet,  kneeled  down  beside  him  with  her 
golden  hair  falling  like  sunlight  on  his  head,  clasped  her  two 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  turned  her  face  to  me.  0,  what  a 
loving  and  devoted  face  I  saw  ! 

" Esther,  dear,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "I  am  not  going 
home  again." 

A  light  shone  in  upon  me  all  at  once. 

"  Never  any  more.  I  am  going  to  stay  with  my  dear 
husband.  We  have  been  married  above  two  months.  Go 
home  without  me,  my  own  Esther ;  I  shall  never  go  home 
any  more !  "  With  these  words  my  darling  drew  his  head 
down  on  her  breast,  and  held  it  there.  And  if  ever  in  my 
life  I  saw  a  love  that  nothing  but  death  could  change,  I  saw 
it  then  before  me. 

"  Speak  to  Esther,  my  dearest,"  said  Eichard,  breaking  the 
silence  presently.    "  Tell  her  how  it  was." 

I  met  her  before  she  could  come  to  me,  and  folded  her  in 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


283 


my  arms.  We  neither  of  us  spoke  ;  but  with  her  cheek 
against  my  own,  I  wanted  to  hear  nothing.  "  My  pet/'  said 
I.  "  My  love.  My  poor,  poor  girl !  "  I  pitied  her  so  much. 
I  was  very  fond  of  Richard,  but  the  impulse  that  I  had  upon 
me  was  to  pity  her  so  much. 

"  Esther,  will  you  forgive  me  ?  Will  my  cousin  John 
forgive  me  ?  " 

.  "  My  dear/'  said  I,  "  to  doubt  it  for  a  moment,  is  to  do  him 
a  great  wrong.  And  as  to  me  !  "  —  why,  as  to  me,  what  had  I 
to  forgive  ! 

I  dried  my  sobbing  darling's  eyes,  and  sat  beside  her  on 
the  sofa,  and  Eichard  sat  on  my  other  side ;  and  while  I  was 
reminded  of  that  so  different  night  when  they  had  first  taken 
me  into  their  confidence,  and  had  gone  on  in  their  own  wild 
happy  way,  they  told  me  between  them  how  it  was. 

"  All  I  had,  was  Richard's,"  Ada  said ;  "  and  Richard 
would  not  take  it,  Esther,  and  what  could  I  do  but  be  his  wife 
when  I  loved  him  dearly  ! " 

"  And  you  were  so  fully  and  so  kindly  occupied,  excellent 
Dame  Durden,"  said  Richard,  "  that  how  could  we  speak  to 
you  at  such  a  time  !  And  besides,  it  was  not  a  long-con- 
sidered step.    We  went  out  one  morning  and  were  married." 

"And  when  it  was  done,  Esther,"  said  my  darling,  "I  was 
always  thinking  how  to  tell  you,  and  what  to  do  for  the  best. 
And  sometimes  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  it  directly ;  and 
sometimes  I  thought  you  ought  not  to  know  it,  and  keep  it 
from  my  cousin  John  ;  and  I  could  not  tell  what  to  do,  and  I 
fretted  very  much." 

How  selfish  I  must  have  been,  not  to  have  thought  of  this 
before !  I  don't  know  what  I  said  now.  I  was  so  sorry,  and 
yet  I  was  so  fond  of  them,  and  so  glad  that  they  were  fond 
of  me ;  I  pitied  them  so  much,  and^  yet  I  felt  a  kind  of  pride 
in  their  loving  one  another.  I  never  had  experienced  such 
painful  and  pleasurable  emotion  at  one  time;  and  in  my  own 
heart  I  did  not  know  which  predominated.  But  I  was  not 
there  to  darken  their  way ;  I  did  not  do  that. 

When  I  was  less  foolish  and  more  composed,  my  darling 
took  her  wedding-ring  from  her  bosom,  and  kissed  it,  and  put 
it  on.    Then  I  remembered  last  night,  and  told  Richard  that 


284 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


ever  since  her  marriage  she  had  worn  it  at  night  when  there 
was  no  one  to  see.  Then  Ada  blushingly  asked  me  how  did 
I  know  that,  my  dear  ?  Then  I  told  Ada  how  I  had  seen  her 
hand  concealed  under  her  pillow,  and  had  little  thought  why, 
my  dear.  Then  they  began  telling  me  how  it  was,  all  over 
again ;  and  I  began  to  be  sorry  and  glad  again,  and  foolish 
again,  and  to  hide  my  plain  old  face  as  much  as  I  could,  lest 
I  should  put  them  out  of  heart. 

Thus  the  time  went  on,  until  it  became  necessary  for  me  to 
think  of  returning.  When  that  time  arrived  it  was  the  worst 
of  all,  for  then  my  darling  completely  broke  down.  She  clung 
round  my  neck,  calling  me  by  every  dear  name  she  could  think 
of,  and  saying  what  should  she  do  without  me !  Nor  was 
Richard  much  better ;  and  as  for  me  I  should  have  been  the 
worst  of  the  three,  if  I  had  not  severely  said  to  myself,  "  Now, 
Esther,  if  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again ! " 

"  Why,  I  declare,"  said  I,  "  I  never  saw  such  a  wife.  I  don't 
think  she  loves  her  husband  at  all.  Here,  Richard,  take  my 
child,  for  goodness'  sake."  But  I  held  her  tight  all  the  while, 
and  could  have  wept  over  her  I  don't  know  how  long. 

"  I  give  this  dear  young  couple  notice,"  said  I,  "  that  I  am 
only  going  away  to  come  back  to-morrow ;  and  that  I  shall 
be  always  coming  backwards  and  forwards,  until  Symond's, 
Inn  is  tired  of  the  sight  of  me.  So  I  shall  not  say  good-by,< 
Richard.  For  what  would  be  the  use  of  that,  you  know,  when'j 
I  am  coming  back  so  soon ! " 

I  had  given  my  darling  to  him  now,  and  I  meant  to  go ;  but* 
I  lingered  for  one  more  look  of  the  precious  face,  which  it 
seemed  to  rive  my  heart  to  turn  from. 

So  I  said  (in  a  merry  bustling  manner)  that  unless  they  gave 
me  some  encouragement  to  come  back,  I  was  not  sure  that  I 
could  take  that  liberty ;  upon  which  my  dear  girl  looked  up, 
faintly  smiling  through  her  tears,  and  I  folded  her  lovely  face 
between  my  hands,  and  gave  it  one  last  kiss,  and  laughed,  and 
ran  av^ay. 

And  when  I  got  down-stairs,  0  how  I  cried!  It  almost 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  lost  my  Ada  forever.  I  was  so 
lonely,  and  so  blank  without  her,  and  it  was  so  desolate  to  be 
going  home  with  no  hope  of  seeing  her  there,  that  I  could  get 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


285 


no  comfort  for  a  little  while,  as  I  walked  up  and  down  in  a  dim 
corner,  sobbing  and  crying. 

I  came  to  myself  by  and  by,  after  a  little  scolding,  and  took 
a  coach  home.  The  poor  boy  whom  I  had  found  at  St.  Albans 
had  reappeard  a  short  time  before,  and  was  lying  at  the  point 
of  death ;  indeed,  was  then  dead,  though  I  did  not  know  it. 
My  Guardian  had  gone  out  to  inquire  about  him,  and  did  not 
return  to  dinner.  Being  quite  alone,  I  cried  a  little  again  ; 
though  on  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I  behaved  so  very,  very  ill. 

It  was  only  natural  that  I  should  not  be  quite  accustomed 
to  the  loss  of  my  darling  yet.  Three  or  four  hours  were  not 
a  long  time,  after  years.  But  my  mind  dwelt  so  much  upon 
the  uncongenial  scene  in  which  I  had  left  her,  and  I  pictured 
it  as  such  an  overshadowed  stony-hearted  one,  and  I  so  longed 
to  be  near  her,  and  taking  some  sort  of  care  of  her,  that  I 
determined  to  go  back  in  the  evening,  only  to  look  up  at  her 
windows. 

It  was  foolish,  I  dare  say ;  but  it  did  not  then  seem  at  all  so 
to  me,  and  it  does  not  seem  quite  so  even  now.  I  took  Charley 
into  my  confidence,  and  we  went  out  at  dusk.  It  was  dark 
when  we  came  to  the  new  strange  home  of  my  dear  girl,  and 
there  was  a  light  behind  the  yellow  blinds.  We  walked  past 
cautiously  three  or  four  times,  looking  up ;  and  narrowly 
missed  encountering  Mr.  Vholes,  who  came  out  of  his  office 
while  we  were  there,  and  turned  his  head  to  look  up  too,  before 
going  home.  The  sight  of  his  lank  black  figure,  and  the  lone- 
some air  of  that  nook  in  the  dark,  were  favorable  to  the  state 
of  my  mind.  I  thought  of  the  youth  and  love  and  beauty  of 
my  dear  girl,  shut  up  in  such  an  ill-assorted  refuge,  almost  as 
if  it  were  a  cruel  place. 

It  was  very  solitary  and  very  dull,  and  I  did  not  doubt  that 
I  might  safely  steal  up-stairs.  I  left  Charley  below,  and  went 
up  with  a  light  foot,  not  distressed  by  any  glare  from  the  feeble 
oil  lanterns  on  the  way.  I  listened  for  a  few  moments ;  and 
in  the  musty  rotting  silence  of  the  house,  believed  that  I  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  their  young  voices.  I  put  my  lips  to  the 
hearse-like  panel  of  the  door,  as  a  kiss  for  my  dear,  and  came 
quietly  down  again,  thinking  that  one  of  these  days  I  would 
confess  to  the  visit. 


286 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


And  it  really  did  me  good ;  for,  though  nobody  but  Charley 
and  I  knew  anything  about  it,  I  somehow  felt  as  if  it  had  dimin- 
ished the  separation  between  Ada  and  me,  and  had  brought 
us  together  again  for  those  moments.  I  went  back,  not  quite 
accustomed  yet  to  the  change,  but  all  the  better  for  that  hover- 
ing about  my  darling. 

My  Guardian  had  come  home,  and  was  standing  thoughtfully 
by  the  dark  window.  When  I  went  in,  his  face  cleared  and 
he  came  to  his  seat ;  but  he  caught  the  light  upon  my  face,  as 
I  took  mine. 

"Little  woman,"  said  he.    "You  have  been  crying." 

"  Why,  yes,  Guardian,"  said  I,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  been,  a 
little.  Ada  has  been  in  such  distress,  and  is  so  very  sorry, 
Guardian." 

I  put  my  arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair ;  and  I  saw  in  his 
glance  that  my  words,  and  my  look  at  her  empty  place,  had 
prepared  him. 

"  Is  she  married,  my  dear  ?  " 

I  told  him  all  about  it,  and  how  her  first  entreaties  had 
referred  to  his  forgiveness. 

"  She  has  no  need  of  it,"  said  he.  "  Heaven  bless  her,  and 
her  husband!"  But  just  as  my  first  impulse  had  been  to  pity 
her,  so  was  his.  "  Poor  girl,  poor  girl !  Poor  Kick !  Poor  Ada ! " 

Neither  of  us  spoke  after  that ;  until  he  said  with  a  sigh, 
"  Well,  well,  my  dear  !    Bleak  House  is  thinning  fast." 

"  But  its  mistress  remains,  Guardian."  Though  I  was  timid 
about  saying  it,  I  ventured  because  of  the  sorrowful  tone  in 
which  he  had  spoken.  "  She  will  do  all  she  can  to  make  it 
happy,"  said  I. 

"  She  will  succeed,  my  love  !  " 

The  letter  had  made  no  difference  between  us,  except  that 
the  seat  by  his  side  had  come  to  be  mine ;  it  made  none  now. 
He  turned  his  old  bright  fatherly  look  upon  me,  laid  his  hand 
on  my  hand  in  his  old  way,  and  said  again,  "  She  will  succeed, 
my  dear.  Nevertheless,  Bleak  House  is  thinning  fast,  0  little 
woman ! " 

I  was  sorry  presently  that  this  was  all  we  said  about  that. 
I  was  rather  disappointed.  I  feared  I  might  not  quite  have 
been  all  I  had  meant  to  be,  since  the  letter  and  the  answer. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


287 


CHAPTER  XXL 

OBSTINACY. 

But  one  other  day  had  intervened,  when,  early  in  the 
morning  as  we  were  going  to  breakfast,  Mr.  Woodcourt  came 
in  haste  with  the  astounding  news  that  a  terrible  murder  had 
been  committed,  for  which  Mr.  George  had  been  apprehended 
and  was  in  custody.  When  he  told  us  that  a  large  reward 
was  offered  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  for  the  murderer's  appre- 
hension, I  did  not  in  my  first  consternation  understand  why ; 
but  a  few  more  words  explained  to  me  that  the  murdered 
person  was  Sir  Leicester's  lawyer,  and  immediately  my 
mother's  dread  of  him  rushed  into  my  remembrance. 

This  unforeseen  and  violent  removal  of  one  whom  she  had 
long  watched  and  distrusted,  and  who  had  long  watched  and 
distrusted  her ;  one  for  whom  she  could  have  had  few  intervals 
of  kindness,  always  dreading  in  him  a  dangerous  and  secret 
enemy ;  appeared  so  awful,  that  my  first  thoughts  were  of 
her.  How  appalling  to  hear  of  such  a  death,  and  be  able  to 
feel  no  pity !  How  dreadful  to  remember,  perhaps,  that  she 
had  sometimes  even  wished  the  old  man  away,  who  was  so 
swiftly  hurried  out  of  life  ! 

Such  crowding  reflections,  increasing  the  distress  and  fear 
I  always  felt  when  the  name  was  mentioned,  made  me  so 
agitated  that  I  could  scarcely  hold  my  place  at  the  table.  I 
was  quite  unable  to  follow  the  conversation,  until  I  had  had 
a  little  time  to  recover.  But  when  I  came  to  myself,  and  saw 
how  shocked  my  guardian  was ;  and  found  that  they  were 
earnestly  speaking  of  the  suspected  man,  and  recalling  every 
favorable  impression  we  had  formed  of  him,  out  of  the  good 
we  had  known  of  him ;  my  interest  and  my  fears  were  so 
strongly  aroused  in  his  behalf  that  I  was  quite  set  up  again. 

"  Guardian,  you  don't  think  it  possible  that  he  is  justly 
accused  ?  " 


288 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  My  dear,  I  canH  think  so.  This  man  whom  we  have  seen 
so  open-hearted  and  compassionate ;  who,  with  the  might  of  a 
giant,  has  the  gentleness  of  a  child ;  who  looks  as  brave  a 
fellow  as  ever  lived,  and  is  so  simple  and  quiet  with  it;  this 
man  justly  accused  of  such  a  crime  ?  I  can't  believe  it.  It's 
not  that  I  don't  or  I  won't.    I  can't !  " 

"  And  I  can't,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  "  Still,  whatever  we 
believe  or  know  of  him,  we  had  better  not  forget  that  some 
appearances  are  against  him.  He  bore  an  animosity  towards 
the  deceased  gentleman.  He  has  openly  mentioned  it  in 
many  places.  He  is  said  to  have  expressed  himself  violently 
towards  him,  and  he  certainly  did  about  him,  to  my  knowl- 
edge. He  admits  that  he  was  alone,  on  the  scene  of  the 
murder,  within  a  few  minutes  of  its  commission.  I  sincerely 
believe  him  to  be  as  innocent  of  any  participation  in  it,  as  I 
am ;  but  these  are  all  reasons  for  suspicion  falling  upon 
him." 

"  True,"  said  my  Guardian  ;  and  he  added,  turning  to  me, 
"  it  would  be  doing  him  a  very  bad  service,  my  dear,  to  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  truth  in  any  of  these  respects." 

I  felt,  of  course,  that  we  must  admit,  not  only  to  ourselves 
but  to  others,  the  full  force  of  the  circumstances  against  him. 
Yet  I  knew  withal  (I  could  not  help  saying)  that  their  weight 
would  not  induce  us  to  desert  him  in  his  need. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  "  returned  my  Guardian.  "  We  will  stand 
by  him,  as  he  himself  stood  by  the  two  poor  creatures  who  are 
gone."  He  meant  Mr.  Gridley  and  the  boy,  to  both  of  whom 
Mr.  George  had  given  shelter. 

Mr.  Woodcourt  then  told  us  that  the  trooper's  man  had 
been  with  him  before  day,  after  wandering  about  the  streets 
all  night  like  a  distracted  creature.  That  one  of  the  trooper's 
first  anxieties  was  that  we  should  not  suppose  him  guilty 
That  he  had  charged  his  messenger  to  represent  his  perfect 
innocence,  with  every  solemn  assurance  he  could  send  us 
That  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  only  quieted  the  man  by  undertak- 
ing to  come  to  our  house  very  early  in  the  morning,  with  these 
representations.  He  added  that  he  was  now  upon  his  way  to 
see  the  prisoner  himself. 

My  Guardian  said,  directly,  he  would  go  too.    Now,  besides 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


that  I  liked  the  retired  soldier  very  much,  and  that  he  liked 
me,  I  had  that  secret  interest  in  what  had  happened,  which 
was  only  known  to  my  Guardian.  I  felt  as  if  it  came  close 
and  near  to  me.  It  seemed  to  become  personally  important 
to  myself  that  the  truth  should  be  discovered,  and  that  no  in- 
nocent people  should  be  suspected;  for  suspicion,  once  run 
wild,  might  run  wilder. 

In  a  word,  I  felt  as  if  it  were  my  duty  and  obligation  to  go 
with  them.  My  Guardian  did  not  seek  to  dissuade  me,  and  I 
went. 

It  was  a  large  prison,  with  many  courts  and  passages  so 
like  one  another,  and  so  uniformly  paved,  that  I  seemed  to 
gain  a  new  comprehension,  as  I  passed  along,  of  the  fondness 
that  solitary  prisoners,  shut  up  among  the  same  staring  walls 
from  year  to  year,  have  had  —  as  I  have  read  —  for  a  weed,  or 
a  stray  blade  of  grass.  In  an  arched  room  by  himself,  like  a 
cellar  up-stairs;  with  walls  so  glaringly  white,  that  they 
made  the  massive  iron  window-bars  and  iron-bound  door  even 
more  profoundly  black  than  they  were :  we  found  the  trooper 
standing  in  a  corner.  He  had  been  sitting  on  a  bench  there, 
and  had  risen  when  he  heard  the  locks  and  bolts  turn. 

When  he  saw  us,  he  came  forward  a  step  with  his  usual 
heavy  tread,  and  there  stopped  and  made  a  slight  bow.  But 
as  I  still  advanced,  putting  out  my  hand  to  him,  he  understood 
us  in  a  moment. 

"  This  is  a  load  off  my  mind,  I  do  assure  you,  miss  and 
gentlemen/'  said  he,  saluting  us  with  great  heartiness  and 
drawing  a  long  breath.  "And  now  I  don't  so  much  care  how 
it  ends." 

He  scarcely  seemed  to  be  the  prisoner.  What  with  his 
coolness  and  his  soldierly  bearing,  he  looked  far  more  like  the 
prison  guard. 

"  This  is  even  a  rougher  place  than  my  gallery  to  receive  a 
lady  in,"  said  Mr.  George,  "  but  I  know  Miss  Summerson  will 
make  the  best  of  it."  As  he  handed  me  to  the  bench  on  which 
he  had  been  sitting,  I  sat  down ;  which  seemed  to  give  him 
great  satisfaction. 

"I  thank  you,  miss,"  said  he. 

"Now,  George,"  observed  my  guardian,  "as  we  require  no 

VOL.  II. 


BLEAK  BOUSE. 


new  assurances  on  your  part,  so  I  believe  we  need  give  you 
none  on  ours." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  If  I 
was  not  innocent  of  this  crime,  I  couldn't  look  at  you  and 
keep  my  secret  to  myself,  under  the  condescension  of  the 
present  visit.  I  feel  the  present  visit  very  much.  I  am  not 
one  of  the  eloquent  sort,  but  I  feel  it,  Miss  Summerson  and 
gentlemen,  deeply." 

He  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  his  broad  chest,  and  bent 
his  head  to  us.  Although  he  squared  himself  again  directly, 
he  expressed  a  great  amount  of  natural  emotion  by  these  sim- 
ple means. 

" First,"  said  my  Guardian,  "can  we  do  anything  for  your 
personal  comfort,  George  ?  " 

"For  which,  sir  ?  "  he  inquired,  clearing  his  throat. 

"For  your  personal  comfort.    Is  there  anything  you  want, 
that  would  lessen  the  hardship  of  this  confinement  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  George,  after  a  little  cogitation,  , 
"  I  am  equally  obliged  to  you ;  but  tobacco  being  against  the  ! 
rules,  I  can't  say  that  there  is." 

"You  will  think  of  many  little  things  perhaps,  by  and  by. 
Whenever  you  do,  George,  let  us  know." 

"Thank  you,  sir.    Howsoever,"  observed  Mr.  George,  with 
one  of  his  sunburnt  smiles,  "  a  man  who  has  been  knocking 
about  the  world  in  a  vagabond  kind  of  way  as  long  as  I  have,  I 
gets  on  well  enough  in  a  place  like  the  present,  so  far  as  that 
goes." 

"Next,  as  to  your  case/'  observed  my  Guardian. 
"  Exactly  so,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  George,  folding  his  arms  upon 
his  breast  with  perfect  self-possession  and  a  little  curiosity. 
"  How  does  it  stand  now  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  it  is  under  remand  at  present.  Bucket  gives 
me  to  understand  that  he  will  probably  apply  for  a  series  of 
remands  from  time  to  time  until  the  case  is  more  complete. 
How  it  is  to  be  made  more  complete,  I  don't  myself  see  ;  but 
I  dare  say  Bucket  will  manage  it  somehow." 

"  Why,  Heaven  save  us,  man ! "  exclaimed  my  Guardian, 
surprised  into  his  old  oddity  and  vehemence,  "you  talk  of 
yourself  as  if  you  were  somebody  else  ! " 


BLEAK  BOUSE. 


291 


"No  offence,  sir,"  said  Mr.  George.  "I  am  very  sensible  of 
your  kindness.  But  I  don't  see  how  an  innocent  man  is  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  this  kind  of  thing  without  knocking  his 
head  against  the  wralls,  unless  he  takes  it  in  that  point  of 
view." 

"  That  is  true  enough  to  a  certain  extent/'  returned  my 
Guardian,  softened.  "  But  my  good  fellow,  even  an  innocent 
man  must  take  ordinary  precautions  to  defend  himself." 

"Certainly,  sir.  And  I  have  done  so.  I  have  stated  to 
the  magistrates,  i  Gentlemen,  I  am  as  innocent  of  this  charge 
as  yourselves ;  what  has  been  stated  against  me  in  the  way 
of  facts,  is  perfectly  true  ;  I  know  no  more  about  it.'  I  intend 
to  continue  stating  that,  sir.  What  more  can  I  do  ?  It's  the 
truth." 

"But  the  mere  truth  won't  do,"  rejoined  my  Guardian. 

"  Won't  it,  indeed,  sir  ?  Rather  a  bad  lookout  for  me ! " 
Mr.  George  good-humoredly  observed. 

"You  must  have  a  lawyer,"  pursued  my  Guardian.  "We 
must  engage  a  good  one  for  you." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  George,  with  a  step 
backward.  "I  am  equally  obliged.  But  I  must  decidedly 
beg  to  be  excused  from  anything  of  that  sort." 

"  You  won't  have  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"No,  sir."  Mr.  George  shook  his  head  in  the  most  em- 
phatic manner.  "I  thank  you  all  the  same,  sir,  but  —  no 
lawyer ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"I  don't  take  kindly  to  the  breed,"  said  Mr.  George. 
"Gridley  didn't.  And  —  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so  much 
—  I  should  hardly  have  thought  you  did  yourself,  sir." 

"  That's  Equity,"  my  Guardian  explained,  a  little  at  a  loss ; 
"that's  Equity,  George." 

"  Is  it,  indeed,  sir  ?  "  returned  the  trooper,  in  his  off-hand 
manner.  "  I  am  not  acquainted  with  those  shades  of  names 
myself,  but  in  a  general  way  I  object  to  the  breed." 

Unfolding  his  arms,  and  changing  his  position,  he  stood 
with  one  massive  hand  upon  the  table,  and  the  other  on  his 
hip,  as  complete  a  picture  of  a  man  who  was  not  to  be  moved 
from  a  fixed  purpose  as  ever  I  saw.    It  was  in  vain  that  we 


292 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


all  three  talked  to  him,  and  endeavored  to  persuade  him ;  he 
listened  with  that  gentleness  which  went  so  well  with  his 
bluff  bearing,  but  was  evidently  no  more  shaken  by  our  repre- 
sentations than  his  place  of  confinement  was. 

"  Pray  think,  once  more,  Mr.  George,"  said  I.  "  Have  you 
no  wish,  in  reference  to  your  case  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  could  wish  it  to  be  tried,  miss,"  he  returned, 
"  by  court-martial ;  but  that  is  out  of  the  question,  as  I  am 
well  aware.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  favor  me  with  your 
attention  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  miss,  not  more,  I'll 
endeavor  to  explain  myself  as  clearly  as  I  can." 

He  looked  at  us  all  three  in  turn,  shook  his  head  a  little 
as  if  he  were  adjusting  it  in  the  stock  and  collar  of  a  tight 
uniform,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection  went  on. 

"  You  see,  miss,  I  have  been  handcuffed  and  taken  into 
custody,  and  brought  here.  I  am  a  marked  and  disgraced 
man,  and  here  I  am.  My  shooting-gallery  is  rummaged,  high 
and  low,  by  Bucket;  such  property  as  I  have  —  'tis  small  —  is 
turned  this  way  and  that,  till  it  don't  know  itself ;  and  (as 
aforesaid)  here  I  am !  I  don't  particular  complain  of  that. 
Though  I  am  in  these  present  quarters  through  no  imme- 
diately preceding  fault  of  mine,  I  can  very  well  understand 
that  if  I  hadn't  gone  into  the  vagabond  way  in  my  youth, 
this  wouldn't  have  happened.  It  has  happened.  Then  comes 
the  question,  how  to  meet  it." 

He  rubbed  his  swarthy  forehead  for  a  moment,  with  a  good- 
humored  look,  and  said  apologetically,  "I  am  such  a  short- 
winded  talker  that  I  must  think  a  bit."  Having  thought  a 
bit,  he  looked  up  again,  and  resumed. 

"  How  to  meet  it.  Now,  the  unfortunate  deceased  was 
himself  a  lawyer,  and  had  a  pretty  tight  hold  of  me.  I  don't 
wish  to  rake  up  his  ashes,  but  he  had,  what  I  should  call  if 
he  was  living,  a  Devil  of  a  tight  hold  of  me.  I  don't  like  his 
trade  the  better  for  that.  If  I  had  kept  clear  of  his  trade, 
I  should  have  kept  outside  this  place.  But  that's  not  what  I 
mean.  Now,  suppose  I  had  killed  him.  Suppose  I  really 
had  discharged  into  his  body  any  one  of  those  pistols  recently 
fired  off,  that  Bucket  has  found  at  my  place,  and,  dear  me  ! 
might  have  found  there  any  day  since  it  has  been  my  place. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


293 


What  should  I  have  done  as  soon  as  I  was  hard  and  fast  here  ? 
Got  a  lawyer.'7 

He  stopped  on  hearing  some  one  at  the  locks  and  bolts, 
and  did  not  resume  until  the  door  had  been  opened  and 
was  shut  again.  For  what  purpose  opened,  I  will  mention 
presently. 

"I  should  have  got  a  lawyer,  and  he  would  have  said  (as 
I  have  often  read  in  the  newspapers),  'my  client  says  nothing, 
my  client  reserves  his  defence  —  my  client  this,  that,  and 
t'other.'  Well;  'tis  not  the  custom  of  that  breed  to  go 
straight,  according  to  my  opinion,  or  to  think  that  other  men 
do.  Say,  I  am  innocent,  and  I  get  a  lawyer.  He  would  be 
as  likely  to  believe  me  guilty  as  not ;  perhaps  more.  What 
would  he  do,  whether  or  not  ?  Act  as  if  I  was ;  —  shut  my 
mouth  up,  tell  me  not  to  commit  myself,  keep  circumstances 
back,  chop  the  evidence  small,  quibble,  and  get  me  off  per- 
haps !  But,  Miss  Summerson,  do  I  care  for  getting  off  in 
that  way;  or  would  I  rather  be  hanged  in  my  own  way  —  if 
you'll  excuse  my  mentioning  anything  so  disagreeable  to  a 
lady  ?  " 

He  had  warmed  into  his  subject  now,  and  was  under  no 
further  necessity  to  wait  a  bit. 

"  I  would  rather  be  hanged  in  my  own  way.  And  I  mean 
to  be  !  I  don't  intend  to  say,"  looking  round  upon  us,  with 
his  powerful  arms  akimbo  and  his  dark  eyebrows  raised, 
"  that  I  am  more  partial  to  being  hanged  than  another  man. 
What  I  say  is,  I  must  come  off  clear  and  full  or  not  at  all. 
Therefore,  when  I  hear  stated  against  me  what  is  true,  I  say 
it's  true ;  and  when  they  tell  me,  '  Whatever  you  say  will  be 
used,'  I  tell  them  I  don't  mind  that ;  .1  mean  it  to  be  used. 
If  they  can't  make  me  innocent  out  of  the  whole  truth,  they 
are  not  likely  to  do  it  out  of  anything  less,  or  anything  else. 
And  if  they  are,  it's  worth  nothing  to  me." 

Taking  a  pace  or  two  over  the  stone  floor,  he  came  back  to 
the  table,  and  finished  what  he  had  to  say. 

"I  thank  you,  miss,  and  gentlemen  both,  many  times  for 
your  attention,  and  many  times  more  for  your  interest.  That's 
the  plain  state  of  the  matter,  as  it  points  itself  out  to  a  mere 
trooper  with  a  blunt  broadsword  kind  of  a  mind.    I  have 


294 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


never  done  well  in  life,  beyond  my  duty  as  a  soldier;  and  if 
the  worst  comes  after  all,  I  shall  reap  pretty  much  as  I  have 
sown.  When  I  got  over  the  first  crash  of  being  seized  as  a 
murderer  —  it  don't  take  a  rover,  who  has  knocked  about 
so  much  as  myself,  so  very  long  to  recover  from  a  crash 
—  I  worked  my  way  round  to  what  you  find  me  now.  As 
such,  I  shall  remain.  No  relations  will  be  disgraced  by  me, 
or  made  unhappy  for  me,  and  —  and  that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

The  door  had  been  opened  to  admit  another  soldier-looking 
man  of  less  prepossessing  appearance  at  first  sight,  and  a 
weather-tanned  bright-eyed  wholesome  woman  with  a  basket, 
who,  from  her  entrance,  had  been  exceedingly  attentive  to  all 
Mr.  George  had  said.  Mr.  George  had  received  them  with  a 
familiar  nod  and  a  friendly  look,  but  without  any  more  par- 
ticular greeting  in  the  midst  of  his  address.  He  now  shook 
them  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "  Miss  Summerson  and  J 
gentlemen,  this  is  an  old  comrade  of  mine,  Joseph  Bagnet. 
And  this  is  his  wife,  Mrs.  Bagnet." 

Mr.  Bagnet  made  us  a  stiff  military  bow,  and  Mrs.  Bagnet  j 
dropped  us  a  courtesy. 

"Seal  good  friends  of  mine  they  are,"  said  Mr.  George. 
"It  was  at  their  house  I  was  taken." 

"With  a  second-hand  wiolinceller,"  Mr.  Bagnet  put  in,  • 
twitching  his  head  angrily.  "  Of  a  good  tone.  For  a  friend.  ] 
That  money  was  no  object  to." 

"  Mat,"  said  Mr.  George,  "  you  have  heard  pretty  well  all  \ 
I  have  been  saying  to  this  lady  and  these  two  gentlemen.  I 
know  it  meets  your  approval  ?  " 

Mr.  Bagnet,  after  considering,  referred  the  point  to  his 
wife.  "Old  girl,"  said  he.  "Tell  him.  Whether  or  not. 
It  meets  my  approval." 

"Why,  George,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bagnet,  who  had  been 
unpacking  her  basket,  in  which  there  was  a  piece  of  cold 
pickled  pork,  a  little  tea  and  sugar,  and  a  brown  loaf,  "  you 
ought  to  know  it  don't.  You  ought  to  know  it's  enough  to 
drive  a  person  wild  to  hear  you.  You  won't  be  got  off  this 
way,  and  you  won't  be  got  off  that  way  —  what  do  you  mean 
by  such  picking  and  choosing  ?  It's  stuff  and  nonsense, 
George." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


295 


u  Don't  be  severe  upon  me  in  my  misfortunes,  Mrs.  Bagnet," 
said  the  trooper,  lightly. 

"  Oh !  Bother  your  misfortunes  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bagnet,  "  if 
they  don't  make  you  more  reasonable  than  that  comes  to.  I 
never  was  so  ashamed  in  my  life  to  hear  a  man  talk  folly,  as 
I  have  been  to  hear  you  talk  this  day  to  the  present  company. 
Lawyers  ?  Why,  what  but  too  many  cooks  should  hinder  you 
from  having  a  dozen  lawyers,  if  the  gentleman  recommended 
them  to  you." 

"  This  is  a  very  sensible  woman,"  said  my  Guardian.  "  I 
hope  you  will  persuade  him,  Mrs.  Bagnet." 

"  Persuade  him,  sir  ? "  she  returned.  "  Lord  bless  you, 
no.  You  don't  know  George.  Now,  there ! "  Mrs.  Bagnet 
left  her  basket  to  point  him  out  with  both  her  bare  brown 
hands.  "There  he  stands  !  As  self-willed  and  as  determined 
a  man,  in  the  wrong  way,  as  ever  put  a  human  creature  under 
Heaven,  out  of  patience  !  You  could  as  soon  take  up  and 
shoulder  an  eight-and-forty  pounder  by  your  own  strength, 
as  turn  that  man,  when  he  has  got  a  thing  into  his  head, 
and  fixed  it  there.  Why,  don't  I  know  him  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Bagnet.  "  Don't  I  know  you,  George !  You  don't  mean 
to  set  up  for  a  new  character  with  me,  after  all  these  years, 
I  hope  ?  " 

Her  friendly  indignation  had  an  exemplary  effect  upon  her 
husband,  who  shook  his  head  at  the  trooper  several  times,  as 
a  silent  recommendation  to  him  to  yield.  Betweenwhiles, 
]\I  i  s.  Bagnet  looked  at  me ;  and  I  understood,  from  the  play 
of  her  eyes,  that  she  wished  me  to  do  something,  though  I 
did  not  comprehend  what. 

"  But  I  have  given  up  talking  to  you,  old  fellow,  years  and 
years,"  said  Mrs.  Bagnet,  as  she  blew  a  little  dust  off  the 
pickled  pork,  looking  at  me  again  ;  "  and  when  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  they'll  give  up  talking  to 
you  too.  If  you  are  not  too  headstrong  to  accept  of  a  bit  of 
dinner,  here  it  is." 

"  I  accept  it  with  many  thanks,"  returned  the  trooper. 

"  Do  you  though  indeed  ? "  said  Mrs.  Bagnet,  continuing 
to  grumble  on  good-humoredly.  "  Fm  sure  I'm  surprised  at 
that.    I  wonder  you  don't  starve  in  your  own  way  also.  It 


296 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


would  only  be  like  you.  Perhaps  you'll  set  your  mind  upon 
that,  next."  Here  she  again  looked  at  me :  and  I  now  per- 
ceived, from  her  glances  at  the  door  and  at  me,  by  turns,  that 
she  wished  us  to  retire,  and  to  await  her  following  us,  outside 
the  prison.  Communicating  this  by  similar  means  to  my 
Guardian,  and  Mr.  Woodcourt,  I  rose. 

"  We  hope  you  will  think  better  of  it,  Mr.  George,"  said 
I ;  "  and  we  shall  come  to  see  you  again,  trusting  to  find  you 
more  reasonable." 

"More  grateful,  Miss  Summerson,  you  can't  find  me,"  he 
returned. 

"But  more  persuadable  we  can,  I  hope,"  said  I.  "And 
let  me  entreat  you  to  consider  that  the  clearing-up  of  this 
mystery  and  the  discovery  of  the  real  perpetrator  of  this 
deed,  may  be  of  the  last  importance  to  others  besides  your- 
self." 

He  heard  me  respectfully,  but  without  much  heeding  these 
words,  which  I  spoke,  a  little  turned  from  him,  already  on  my 
way  to  the  door ;  he  was  observing  (this  they  afterwards  told  ! 
me)  my  height  and  figure,  which  seemed  to  catch  his  attention 
all  at  once. 

"'Tis  curious,"  said*  he.    "And  yet  I  thought  so  at  the 
time ! " 

My  Guardian  asked  him  what  he  meant. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  answered,  "when  my  ill-fortune  took  me  \ 
to  the  dead  man's  staircase  on  the  night  of  his  murder,  I  saw  ; 
a  shape  so  like  Miss  Summerson's  go  by  me  in  the  dark,  that 
I  had  half  a  mind  to  speak  to  it." 

For  an  instant,  I  felt  such  a  shudder  as  I  never  felt  before 
or  since,  and  hope  I  shall  never  feel  again. 

"  It  came  down-stairs  as  I  went  up,"  said  the  trooper, 
"and  crossed  the  moon-lighted  window  with  a  loose  black 
mantle  on  ;  I  noticed  a  deep  fringe  to  it.  However,  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  present  subject,  excepting  that  Miss 
Summerson  looked  so  like  at  the  moment,  that  it  came  into 
my  head." 

I  cannot  separate  and  define  the  feelings  that  arose  in  me 
after  this :  it  is  enough  that  the  vague  duty  and  obligation  I 
had  felt  upon  me  from  the  first  of  following  the  investigation, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


297 


was,  without  my  distinctly  daring  to  ask  myself  any  question, 
increased  ;  and  that  I  was  indignantly  sure  of  there  being  no 
possibility  of  a  reason  for  my  being  afraid. 

We  three  went  out  of  the  prison,  and  walked  up  and  down 
at  some  short  distance  from  the  gate,  which  was  in  a  retired 
place.  We  had  not  waited  long,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bagnet 
came  out  too,  and  quickly  joined  us. 

There  was  a  tear  in  each  of  Mrs.  Bagnet's  eyes,  and  her 
face  was  flushed  and  hurried.  "  I  didn't  let  George  see  what 
I  thought  about  it,  you  know,  miss/7  was  her  first  remark 
when  she  came  up ;  "  but  he's  in  a  bad  way,  poor  old 
fellow  ! " 

"Not  with  care  and  prudence,  and  good  help,"  said  my 
Guardian. 

"  A  gentleman  like  you  ought  to  know  best,  sir,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bagnet,  hurriedly  drying  her  eyes  on  the  hem  of  her 
gray  cloak ;  "  but  I  am  uneasy  for  him.  He  has  been  so 
careless,  and  said  so  much  that  he  never  meant.  The  gentle- 
men of  the  juries  might  not  understand  him  as  Lignum  and 
me  do.  And  then  such  a  number  of  circumstances  have  hap- 
pened bad  for  him,  and  such  a  number  of  people  will  be 
brought  forward  to  speak  against  him,  and  Bucket  is  so 
deep." 

"With  a  second-hand  wiolinceller.  And  said  he  played 
the  fife.  When  a  boy."  Mr.  Bagnet  added,  with  great 
solemnity. 

"  Now,  I  tell  you,  miss,"  said  Mrs.  Bagnet ;  "  and  when  I 
say  miss,  I  mean  all !  Just  come  into  the  corner  of  the  wall, 
and  I'll  tell  you  !  " 

Mrs.  Bagnet  hurried  us  into  a  more  secluded  place,  and 
was  at  first  too  breathless  to  proceed ;  occasioning  Mr.  Bagnet 
to  say,  "  Old  girl !    Tell  'em  !  " 

"Why  then,  miss,"  the  old  girl  proceeded,  untying  the 
strings  of  her  bonnet  for  more  air,  "you  could  as  soon 
move  Dover  Castle  as  move  George  on  this  point,  unless 
you  had  got  a  new  power  to  move  him  with.  And  I  have 
got  it ! " 

"  You  are  a  jewel  of  a  woman,"  said  my  Guardian.  "  Go 
on! " 


298 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Now,  I  tell  you  miss/'  she  proceeded,  clapping  her  hands 
in  her  hurry  and  agitation  a  dozen  times  in  every  sentence, 
"  that  what  he  says  concerning  no  relations  is  all  bosh.  They 
don't  know  of  him,  but  he  does  know  of  them.  He  has  said 
more  to  me  at  odd  times  than  to  anybody  else,  and  it  warn't 
for  nothing  that  he  once  spoke  to  my  Woolwich  about  whiten- 
ing and  wrinkling  mothers'  heads.  For  fifty  pounds  he  had 
seen  his  mother  that  day.  She's  alive,  and  must  be  brought 
here  straight !  " 

Instantly  Mrs,  Bagnet  put  some  pins  into  her  mouth,  and 
began  pinning  up  her  skirts  all  round,  a  little  higher  than  the 
level  of  her  gray  cloak ;  which  she  accomplished  with  surpris- 
ing despatch  and  dexterity. 

" Lignum,"  said  Mrs.  Bagnet,  "you  take  care  of  the  chil- 
dren, old  man,  and  give  me  the  umbrella !  I'm  away  to 
Lincolnshire,  to  bring  that  old  lady  here." 

"But  bless  the  woman!"  cried  my  Guardian,  with  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  "  How  is  she  going  ?    What  money  has  1 
she  got  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bagnet  made  another  application  to  her  skirts,  and 
brought  forth  a  leathern  purse  in  which  she  hastily  counted 
over  a  few  shillings,  and  which  she  then  shut  up  with  perfect 
satisfaction.. 

"Never  you  mind  for  me,  miss,  I'm  a  soldier's  wife,  and  ; 
accustomed  to  travelling  in  my  own  way.    Lignum,  old  boy,"  j 
kissing  him,  "  one  for  yourself ;  three  for  the  children.  Now, 
Fm  away  into  Lincolnshire  after  George's  mother ! " 

And  she  actually  set  off  while  we  three  stood  looking  at 
one  another  lost  in  amazement.  She  actually  trudged  away  in 
her  gray  cloak  at  a  sturdy  pace,  and  turned  the  corner,  and 
was  gone. 

"Mr.  Bagnet,"  said  my  Guardian.  "Do  you  mean  to  let 
her  go  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  Can't  help  it,"  he  returned.  "  Made  her  way  home  once. 
From  another  quarter  of  the  world.  With  the  same  gray 
cloak.  And  same  umbrella.  Whatever  the  old  girl  says, 
do.  Do  it !  Whenever  the  old  girl  says,  I'll  do  it.  She 
does  it." 

"  Then  she  is  as  honest  and  genuine  as  she  looks,"  re- 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  299 

foriehe,"y  GUardkn'  "and  *  iS  imp°SSibIe  t0  s^  ™™ 
"She's  color-sergeant  of  the  Nonpareil  battalion,"  said  Mr 
Bagnet  looking  at  us  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  went  his  way 
also.  ^And  there's  not  such  another.  But  I  never  own  to  it 
before  her.    Discipline  must  be  maintained." 


300 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE  TRACK. 


Mr.  Bucket  and  his  fat  forefinger  are  much  in  consulta- 
tion together  under  existing  circumstances.  When  Mr.  Bucket 
has  a  matter  of  this  pressing  interest  under  his  consideration, 
the  fat  forefinger  seems  to  rise  to  the  dignity  of  a  familiar 
demon.  He  puts  it  to  his  ears,  and  it  whispers  information ; 
he  puts  it  to  his  lips,  and  it  enjoins  him  to  secrecy  ;  he  rubs 
it  over  his  nose,  and  it  sharpens  his  scent ;  he  shakes  it  before 
a  guilty  man,  and  it  charms  him  to  his  destruction.  The 
Augurs  of  the  Detective  Temple  invariably  predict,  that  when  , 
Mr.  Bucket  and  that  finger  are  much  in  conference,  a  terrible 
avenger  will  be  heard  of  before  long. 

Otherwise  mildly  studious  in  his  observation  of  human 
nature,  on  the  whole  a  benignant  philosopher  not  disposed  to ; 
be  severe  upon  the  follies  of  mankind,  Mr.  Bucket  pervades  a  ; 
vast  number  of  houses,  and  strolls  about  an  infinity  of  streets 
to  outward  appearance  rather  languishing  for  want  of  an; 
obiect    He  is  in  the  friendliest  condition  towards  his  species, , 
and  will  drink  with  most  of  them.  He  is  free  with  his  money, ; 
affable  in  his  manners,  innocent  in  his  conversation  —  but, 
through  the  placid  stream  of  his  life,  there  glides  an  under- 
current  of  forefinger. 

Time  and  place  cannot  bind  Mr.  Bucket.  Like  man  in  the 
abstract,  he  is  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow -  but,  very 
unlike  man  indeed,  he  is  here  again  the  next  day.  inis 
evening  he  will  be  casually  looking  into  the  iron  extinguishers 
at  the  door  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  house  in  town;  and  to- 
morrow morning  he  will  be  walking  on  the  leads  at  Chesney 
Wold,  where  erst  the  old  man  walked  whose  ghost  is  propi- 
tiated with  a  hundred  guineas.  Drawers,  desks,  pockets,  all 
things  belonging  to  him,  Mr.  Bucket  examines.    A  few  houT 


Diirs 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


301 


afterwards,  he  and  the  Eoman  will  be  alone  together,  com- 
paring forefingers. 

It  is  likely  that  these  occupations  are  irreconcilable  with 
home  enjoyment,  but  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Bucket  at  present 
does  not  go  home.  Though  in  general  he  highly  appreciates 
the  society  of  Mrs.  Bucket  —  a  lady  of  a  natural  detective 
genius,  which  if  it  had  been  improved  by  professional  exer- 
cise, might  have  done  great  things,  but  which  has  paused  at 
the  level  of  a  clever  amateur  —  he  holds  himself  aloof  from 
that  dear  solace.  Mrs.  Bucket  is  dependent  on  their  lodger 
(fortunately  an  amiable  lady  in  whom  she  takes  an  interest) 
for  companionship  and  conversation. 

A  great  crowd  assembles  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  on  the  day 
of  the  funeral.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  attends  the  ceremony 
in  person  ;  strictly  speaking,  there  are  only  three  other  human 
followers,  that  is  to  say,  Lord  Doodle,  William  Buffy,  and  the 
debilitated  cousin  (thrown  in  as  a  make-weight),  but  the 
amount  of  inconsolable  carriages  is  immense.  The  Peerage 
contributes  more  four-wheeled  affliction  than  has  ever  been 
seen  in  that  neighborhood.  Such  is  the  assemblage  of 
armorial  bearings  on  coach  panels,  that  the  Heralds'  College 
might  be  supposed  to  have  lost  its  father  and  mother  at  a 
blow.  The  Duke  of  Foodie  sends  a  splendid  pile  of  dust  and 
ashes,  with  silver  wheel-boxes,  patent  axles,  all  the  last  im- 
provements, and  three  bereaved  worms,  six  feet  high,  holding 
on  behind,  in  a  bunch  of  woe.  All  the  state  coachmen  in 
London  seemed  plunged  into  mourning ;  and  if  that  dead  old 
man  of  the  rusty  garb,  be  not  beyond  a  taste  in  horseflesh 
(which  appears  impossible),  it  must  be  highly  gratified  this 
day. 

Quiet  among  the  undertakers  and  the  equipages,  and  the 
calves  of  so  many  legs  all  steeped  in  grief,  Mr.  Bucket  sits 
concealed  in  one  of  the  inconsolable  carriages,  and  at  his  ease 
surveys  the  crowd  through  the  lattice  blinds.  He  has  a  keen 
eye  for  a  crowd  —  as  for  what  not  ?  —  and  looking  here  and 
there,  now  from  this  side  of  the  carriage,  now  from  the  other, 
now  up  at  the  house  windows,  now  along  the  people's  heads, 
nothing  escapes  him. 

"  And  there  you  are,  my  partner,  eh  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket 


302 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


to  himself,  apostrophizing  Mrs.  Bucket,  stationed,  by  his 
favor,  on  the  steps  of  the  deceased's  house.  "  And  so  you  are. 
And  so  you  are  !  And  very  well  indeed  you  are  looking,  Mrs. 
Bucket ! " 

The  procession  has  not  started  yet,  but  is  waiting  for  the 
cause  of  its  assemblage  to  be  brought  out.  Mr.  Bucket,  in 
the  foremost  emblazoned  carriage,  uses  his  two  fat  forefingers 
to  hold  the  lattice  a  hair's  breadth  open  while  he  looks. 

And  it  says  a  great  deal  for  his  attachment,  as  a  husband, 
that  he  is  still  occupied  with  Mrs.  B.  "  There  yOu  are,  my 
partner,  eh  ?  "  he  murmuringly  repeats.  "  And  our  lodger 
with  you.  I'm  taking  notice  of  you,  Mrs.  Bucket ;  I  hope 
you're  all  right  in  your  health,  my  dear  !  " 

Not  another  word  does  Mr.  Bucket  say ;  but  sits  with  most 
attentive  eyes,  until  the  sacked  depository  of  noble  secrets  is 
brought  down  —  Where  are  all  those  secrets  now  ?  Does  he 
keep  them  yet  ?  Did  they  fly  with  him  on  that  sudden 
journey  ?  — and  until  the  procession  moves,  and  Mr.  Bucket's 
view  is  changed.  After  which,  he  composes  himself  for  an 
easy  ride ;  and  takes  note  of  the  fittings  of  the  carriage,  in 
case  he  should  ever  find  such  knowledge  useful. 

Contrast  enough  between  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  shut  up  in  his 
dark  carriage,  and  Mr.  Bucket  shut  up  in  his.  Between  the 
immeasurable  track  of  space  beyond  the  little  wound  that  has 
thrown  the  one  into  the  fixed  sleep  which  jolts  so  heavily 
over  the  stones  of  the  streets,  and  the  narrow  track  of  blood 
which  keeps  the  other  in  the  watchful  state  expressed  in  every 
hair  of  his  head  !  But  it  is  all  one  to  both ;  neither  is 
troubled  about  that. 

Mr.  Bucket  sits  out  the  procession,  in  his  own  easy  manner, 
and  glides  from  the  carriage  when  the  opportunity  he  has 
settled  with  himself  arrives.  He  makes  for  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock's,  which  is  at  present  a  sort  of  home  to  him,  where  he 
comes  and  goes  as  he  likes  at  all  hours,  where  he  is  always 
welcome  and  made  much  of,  where  he  knows  the  whole 
establishment,  and  walks  in  an  atmosphere  of  mysterious 
greatness. 

No  knocking  or  ringing  for  Mr.  Bucket.  He  has  caused 
himself  to  be  provided  with  a  key,  and  can  pass  in  at  his 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


303 


pleasure.  As  he  is  crossing  the  hall,  Mercury  informs  him, 
"  Here's  another  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Bucket,  come  by  post/' 
and  gives  it  him. 

"  Another  one,  eh  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

If  Mercury  should  chance  to  be  possessed  by  any  lingering 
curiosity  as  to  Mr.  Bucket's  letters,  that  wary  person  is  not 
the  man  to  gratify  it.  Mr.  Bucket  looks  at  him,  as  if  his 
face  were  a  vista  of  some  miles  in  length,  and  he  were  leisurely 
contemplating  the  same. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  carry  a  box  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

Unfortunately  Mercury  is  no  snuff-taker. 

"  Could  you  fetch  me  a  pinch  from  anywheres  ?  "  Says  Mr. 
Bucket.  "  Thankee.  It  don't  matter  what  it  is ;  I'm  not 
particular  as  to  the  kind.    Thankee  ! " 

Having  leisurely  helped  himself  from  a  canister  borrowed 
from  somebody  down-stairs  for  the  purpose,  and  having  made 
a  considerable  show  of  tasting  it,  first  with  one  side  of  his 
nose  and  then  with  the  other,  Mr.  Bucket,  with  much  deliber- 
ation, pronounces  it  of  the  right  sort,  and  goes  on,  letter  in 
hand. 

Now,  although  Mr.  Bucket  walks  up-stairs  to  the  little 
library  within  the  larger  one,  with  the  face  of  a  man  who 
receives  some  scores  of  letters  every  day,  it  happens  that  much 
correspondence  is  not  incidental  to  his  life.  He  is  no  great 
scribe ;  rather  handling  his  pen  like  the  pocket-staff  he 
carries  about  with  him  always  convenient  to  his  grasp ;  and 
discourages  correspondence  with  himself  in  others,  as  being 
too  artless  and  direct  a  way  of  doing  delicate  business.  Fur- 
ther, he  often  sees  damaging  letters  produced  in  evidence, 
and  has  occasion  to  reflect  that  it  was  a  green  thing  to  write 
them.  For  these  reasons  he  has  very  little  to  do  with  letters, 
either  as  sender  or  receiver.  And  yet  he  hag  received  a  round 
half-dozen,  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

"  And  this,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  spreading  it  out  on  the  table, 
"  is  in  the  same  hand,  and  consists  of  the  same  two  words." 

What  two  words  ? 

He  turns  the  key  in  the  door,  ungirdles  his  black  pocket- 
book  (book  of  fate  to  many),  lays  another  letter  by  it,  and 
reads,  boldly  written  in  each,  "  Lady  Dedlock." 


304 


BLEAK  HOUSE, 


"Yes,  yes,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "But  I  could  have  made 
the  money  without  this  anonymous  information." 

Having  put  the  letters  in  his  book  of  Fate,  and  girdled  it 
up  again,  he  unlocks  the  door  just  in  time  to  admit  his  dinner, 
which  is  brought  upon  a  goodly  tray,  with  a  decanter  of 
sherry.  Mr.  Bucket  frequently  observes,  in  friendly  circles 
where  there  is  no  restraint,  that  he  likes  a  toothful  of  your 
fine  old  brown  East-Inder  sherry  better  than  anything  you 
can  offer  him.  Consequently  he  fills  and  empties  his  glass, 
with  a  smack  of  his  lips  ;  and  is  proceeding  with  his  refresh- 
ment, when  an  idea  enters  his  mind. 

Mr.  Bucket  softly  opens  the  door  of  communication  between 
that  room  and  the  next,  and  looks  in.  The  library  is  deserted, 
and  the  fire  is  sinking  low.  Mr.  Bucket's  eye,  after  taking  a 
pigeon-flight  round  the  room,  alights  upon  a  table  where  letters 
are  usually  put  as  they  arrive.  Several  letters  for  Sir  Leices- 
ter are  upon  it.  Mr.  Bucket  draws  near,  and  examines  the 
directions.  "  No,"  he  says,  "  there's  none  in  that  hand.  It's 
only  me  as  is  written  to.  I  can  break  it  to  Sir  Leicester 
"Dedlock,  Baronet,  to-morrow." 

With  that,  he  returns  to  finish  his  dinner  with  a  good  appe- 
tite ;  and  after  a  light  nap,  is  summoned  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Sir  Leicester  has  received  him  there  these  several 
evenings  past,  to  know  whether  he  has  anything  to  report. 
The  debilitated  cousin  (much  exhausted  by  the  funeral),  and 
Volumnia,  are  in  attendance. 

Mr.  Bucket  makes  three  distinctly  different  bows  to  these 
three  people.  A  bow  of  homage  to  Sir  Leicester,  a  bow  of 
gallantry  to  Volumnia,  and  a  bow  of  recognition  to  the  debili- 
tated cousin ;  to  whom  it  airily  says,  "  You  are  a  swell  about 
town,  and  you  know  me,  and  I  know  you."  Having  distributed 
these  little  specimens  of  his  tact,  Mr.  Bucket  rubs  his  hands. 

"  Have  you  anything  new  to  communicate,  officer  ?  "  inquires 
Sir  Leicester.  "  Do  you  wish  to  hold  any  conversation  with 
me  in  private  ?  " 

"Why  —  not  to-night,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet." 

"Because  my  time,"  pursues  Sir  Leicester,  "is  wholly  at 
your  disposal,  with  a  view  to  the  vindication  of  the  outraged 
majesty  of  the  law." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


305 


Mr.  Bucket  coughs,  and  glances  at  Volumnia,  rouged  and 
necklaced,  as  though  he  would  respectfully  observe,  "I  do 
assure  you,  you're  a  pretty  creetur.  I've  seen  hundreds  worse 
looking  at  your  time  of  life,  I  have  indeed." 

The  fair  Volumnia,  not  quite  unconscious  perhaps  of  the 
humanizing  influence  of  her  charms,  pauses  in  the  writing  of 
cocked-hat  notes,  and  meditatively  adjusts  the  pearl  necklace. 
Mr.  Bucket  prices  that  decoration  in  his  mind,  and  thinks  it 
as  likely  as  not  that  Volumnia  is  writing  poetry. 

"  If  I  have  not,"  pursues  Sir  Leicester,  "  in  the  most  em- 
phatic manner,  adjured  you,  officer,  to  exercise  your  utmost 
skill  in  this  atrocious  case,  I  particularly  desire  to  take  the 
present  opportunity  of  rectifying  any  omission  I  may  have 
made.  Let  no  expense  be  a  consideration.  I  am  prepared  to 
defray  all  charges.  You  can  incur  none,  in  pursuit  of  the 
object  you  have  undertaken,  that  I  shall  hesitate  for  a  moment 
to  bear." 

Mr.  Bucket  made  Sir  Leicester's  bow  again,  as  a  response 
to  this  liberality. 

"  My  mind,"  Sir  Leicester  adds,  with  generous  warmth, 
"has  not,  as  may  be  easily  supposed,  recovered  its  tone  since 
the  late  diabolical  occurrence.  It  is  not  likely  ever  to  recover 
its  tone.  But  it  is  full  of  indignation  to-night,  after  under- 
going the  ordeal  of  consigning  to  the  tomb  the  remains  of  a 
faithful,  a  zealous,  a  devoted  adherent." 

Sir  Leicester's  voice  trembles,  and  his  gray  hair  stirs  upon 
his  head.  Tears  are  in  his  eyes ;  the  best  part  of  his  nature 
is  aroused. 

"I  declare,"  he  says,  "I  solemnly  declare,  that  until  this 
crime  is  discovered  and,  in  the  course  of  justice,  punished,  I 
almost  feel  as  if  there  were  a  stain  upon  my  name.  A  gentle- 
man who  has  devoted  a  large  portion  of  his  life  to  me,  a  gen- 
tleman who  has  devoted  the  last  day  of  his  life  to  me,  a 
gentleman  who  has  constantly  sat  at  my  table  and  slept  under 
my  roof,  goes  from  my  house  to  his  own,  and  is  struck  down 
within  an  hour  of  his  leaving  my  house.  I  cannot  say  but 
that  he  may  have  been  followed  from  my  house,  watched  at 
my  house,  even  first  marked  because  of  his  association  with 
my  house  —  which  may  have  suggested  his  possessing  greater 

VOL.  II. 


306 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


wealth,  and  being  altogether  of  greater  importance  than  his 
own  retiring  demeanor  would  have  indicated.  If  I  cannot, 
with  my  means,  and  my  influence,  and  my  position,  bring  all 
the  perpetrators  of  such  a  crime  to  light,  I  fail  in  the  assertion 
of  my  respect  for  that  gentleman's  memory,  and  of  my  fidelity 
towards  one  who  was  ever  faithful  to  me." 

While  he  makes  this  protestation  with  great  emotion  and 
earnestness,  looking  round  the  room  as  if  he  were  addressing 
an  assembly,  Mr.  Bucket  glances  at  him  with  an  observant 
gravity  in  which  there  might  be,  but  for  the  audacity  of  the 
thought,  a  touch  of  compassion. 

"  The  ceremony  of  to-day,"  continues  Sir  Leicester,  "  strik- 
ingly illustrative  of  the  respect  in  which  my  deceased  friend;" 
he  lays  a  stress  on  the  word,  for  death  levels  all  distinctions ; 
"  was  held  by  the  flower  of  the  land,  has,  I  say,  aggravated  the 
shock  I  have  received  from  this  most  horrible  and  audacious 
crime.  If  it  were  my  brother  who  had  committed  it,  I  would 
not  spare  him." 

Mr.  Bucket  looks  very  grave.  Volumnia  remarks  of  the 
deceased  that  he  was  the  trustiest  and  dearest  person  ! 

"You  must  feel  it  as  a  deprivation  to  you,  miss,"  replies 
Mr.  Bucket,  soothingly,  "  no  doubt.  He  was  calculated  to  be 
a  deprivation,  I'm  sure  he  was." 

Volumnia  gives  Mr.  Bucket  to  understand,  in  reply,  that  her 
sensitive  mind  is  fully  made  up  never  to  get  the  better  of  it  as 
long  as  she  lives ;  that  her  nerves  are  unstrung  forever ;  and 
that  she  has  not  the  least  expectation  of  smiling  again.  Mean- 
while she  folds  up  a  cocked-hat  for  that  redoubtable  old  gen- 
eral at  Bath,  descriptive  of  her  melancholy  condition. 

"  It  gives  a  start  to  a  delicate  female,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
sympathetically,  "but  it'll  wear  off." 

Volumnia  wishes  of  all  things  to  know  what  is  doing? 
Whether  they  are  going  to  convict,  or  whatever  it  is,  that 
dreadful  soldier  ?  Whether  he  had  any  accomplices,  or  what- 
ever the  thing  is  called  in  the  law  ?  And  a  great  deal  more 
to  the  like  artless  purpose. 

"  Why  you  see,  miss,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  bringing  the  fin- 
ger into  persuasive  action  —  and  such  is  his  natural  gallantry, 
that  he  had  almost  said,  my  dear ;  "  it  ain't  easy  to  answer 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


307 


those  questions  at  the  present  moment.  Not  at  the  present 
moment.  I've  kept  myself  on  this  case,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet/'  whom  Mr.  Bucket  takes  into  the  conversation  in 
right  of  his  importance,  "morning,  noon,  and  night.  But  for 
a  glass  or  two  of  sherry,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  had  my 
mind  so  much  upon  the  stretch  as  it  has  been.  I  could  answer 
your  questions,  miss,  but  duty  forbids  it.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock, Baronet,  will  very  soon  be  made  acquainted  with  all  that 
has  been  traced.  And  I  hope  that  he  may  find  it ; "  Mr. 
Bucket  again  looks  grave ;  "  to  his  satisfaction." 

The  debilitated  cousin  only  hopes  some  fler'll  be  executed 
—  zample.  Thinks  more  interest's  wanted  —  get  man  hanged 
presentime  —  than  get  man  place  ten  thousand  a  year.  Hasn't 
a  doubt  —  zample — far  better  hang  wrong  fler  than  no 
fler. 

"You  know  life,  you  know,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  with  a 
complimentary  twinkle  of  his  eye  and  crook  of  his  finger, 
"and  you  can  confirm  what  I've  mentioned  to  this  lady.  You 
don't  want  to  be  told,  that,  from  information  I  have  received, 
I  have  gone  to  work.  You're  up  to  what  a  lady  can't  be 
expected  to  be  up  to.  Lord  !  especially  in  your  elevated 
station  of  society,  miss,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  quite  reddening  at 
another  narrow  escape  from  my  dear. 

"The  officer,  Volumnia,"  observes  Sir  Leicester,  " is  faithful 
to  his  duty,  and  perfectly  right." 

Mr.  Bucket  murmurs,  "Glad  to  have  the  honor  of  your 
approbation,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet." 

"In  fact,  Volumnia,"  proceeds  Sir  Leicester,  "it  is  not 
holding  up  a  good  model  for  imitation,  to  ask  the  officer  any 
such  questions  as  you  have  put  to  him.  He  is  the  best  judge 
of  his  own  responsibility ;  he  acts  upon  his  responsibility. 
And  it  does  not  become  us,  who  assist  in  making  the  laws,  to 
impede  or  interfere  with  those  who  carry  them  into  execution. 
Or,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  somewhat  sternly,  for  Volumnia  was 
going  to  cut  in  before  he  had  rounded  his  sentence;  "or  who 
vindicate  their  outraged  majesty." 

Volumnia  with  all  humility  explains  that  she  has  not  merely 
the  plea  of  curiosity  to  urge  (in  common  with  the  giddy  youth 
of  her  sex  in  general),  but  that  she  is  perfectly  dying  with 


308 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


regret  and  interest  for  the  darling  man  whose  loss  they  all 
deplore. 

"Very  well,  Volumnia,"  returns  Sir  Leicester.  "Then  you 
cannot  be  too  discreet." 

Mr.  Bucket  takes  the  opportunity  of  a  pause  to  be  heard 
again. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  have  no  objections  to 
telling  this  lady,  with  your  leave  and  among  ourselves,  that  I 
look  upon  the  case  as  pretty  well  complete.  It  is  a  beautiful 
case  —  a  beautiful  case  —  and  what  little  is  wanting  to  com- 
plete it,  I  expect  to  be  able  to  supply  in  a  few  hours." 

"I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  says  Sir  Leicester. 
"  Highly  creditable  to  you." 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  very  ; 
seriously,  "  I  hope  it  may  at  one  and  the  same  time  do  me 
credit,  and  prove  satisfactory  to  all.    When  I  depict  it  as  a  1 
beautiful  case,  you  see,  miss,"  Mr.  Bucket  goes  on,  glancing 
gravely  at  Sir  Leicester,  "  I  mean  from  my  point  of  view.  As 
considered  from  other  points  of  view,  such  cases  will  always 
involve  more  or  less  unpleasantness.    Very  strange  things 
comes  to  our  knowledge  in  families,  miss ;  bless  your  heart,  . 
what  you  would  think  to  be  phenomenons,  quite." 

Volumnia,  with  her  innocent  little  scream,  supposes  so. 

"  Ay,  and  even  in  gen-teel  families,  in  high  families,  in 
great  families,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  again  gravely  eying  Sir 
Leicester  aside.  "  I  have  had  the  honor  of  being  employed 
in  high  families  before  ;  and  you  have  no  idea  —  come,  Fll  go  ; 
so  far  as  to  say  not  even  you  have  any  idea,  sir,"  this  to  the 
debilitated  cousin,  "  what  games  goes  on  !  " 

The  cousin,  who  has  been  casting  sofa-pillows  on  his  head, 
in  a  prostration  of  boredom,  yawns,  "  Vayli "  —  being  the 
used-up  for  "  very  likely." 

Sir  Leicester,  deeming  it  time  to  dismiss  the  officer,  here 
majestically  interposes  with  the  words,  "  Very  good.  Thank 
you !  "  and  also  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  implying  not  only 
that  there  is  an  end  of  the  discourse,  but  that  if  high  families 
fall  into  low  habits  they  must  take  the  consequences.  "You 
will  not  forget,  officer,"  he  adds,  with  condescension,  "  that  I 
am  at  your  disposal  when  you  please." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


309 


Mr.  Bucket  (still  grave)  inquires  if  to-morrow  morning, 
now,  would  suit,  in  case  he  should  be  as  for'ard  as  he  expects 
to  be  ?  Sir  Leicester  replies,  "  All  times  are  alike  to  me." 
Mr.  Bucket  makes  his  three  bows,  and  is  withdrawing,  when 
a  forgotten  point  occurs  to  him. 

"  Might  I  ask,  by-the-by,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice,  cautiously 
returning,  "  who  posted  the  Reward-bill  on  the  staircase." 

"/ordered  it  to  be  put  up  there,"  replies  Sir  Leicester. 

"  Would  it  be  considered  a  liberty,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock 
Baronet,  if  I  was  to  ask  you  why  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  chose  it  as  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  house. 
I  think  it  cannot  be  too  prominently  kept  before  the  whole 
establishment.  I  wish  my  people  to  be  impressed  with  the 
enormity  of  the  crime,  the  determination  to  punish  it,  and  the 
hopelessness  of  escape.  At  the  same  time,  officer,  if  you  in 
your  better  knowledge  of  the  subject  see  any  objection"  — 

Mr.  Bucket  sees  none  now ;  the  bill  having  been  put  up,  had 
better  not  be  taken  down.  Repeating  his  three  bows  he  with- 
draws :  closing  the  door  on  Volumnia's  little  scream,  which  is 
a  preliminary  to  her  remarking  that  that  charmingly  horrible 
person  is  a  perfect  Blue  Chamber. 

In  his  fondness  for  society,  and  his  adaptability  to  all  grades, 
Mr.  Bucket  is  presently  standing  before  the  hall-fire  —  bright 
and  warm  on  the  early  winter  night  —  admiring  Mercury. 

"  Why,  you're  six  foot  two,  I  suppose  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  Three,"  says  Mercury. 

"  Are  you  so  much  ?  But  then,  you  see,  you're  broad  in 
proportion,  and  don't  look  it.  You're  not  one  of  the  weak- 
legged  ones,  you  ain't.  Was  you  ever  modelled  now  ?  "  Mr. 
Bucket  asks,  conveying  the  expression  of  an  artist  into  the 
turn  of  his  eye  and  head. 

Mercury  never  was  modelled. 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Bucket ; 
"  and  a  friend  of  mine  that  you'll  hear  of  one  day  as  a  Royal 
Academy  Sculptor,  would  stand  something  handsome  to  make 
a  drawing  of  your  proportions  for  the  marble.  My  Lady's 
out,  ain't  she  ?  " 

"  Out  to  dinner." 

"  Goes  out  pretty  well  every  day,  don't  she  ?  " 


310 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Yes." 

"  Not  to  be  wondered  at ! "  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Such  a 
fine  woman  as  her,  so  handsome  and  so  graceful  and  so 
elegant,  is  like  a  fresh  lemon  on  a  dinner-table,  ornamental 
wherever  she  goes.  Was  your  father  in  the  same  way  of  life 
as  yourself  ?  " 

Answer  in  the  negative. 

"Mine  was,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "My  father  was  first  a 
page,  then  a  footman,  then  a  butler,  then  a  steward,  then  an 
innkeeper.  Lived  universally  respected,  and  died  lamented. 
Said  with  his  last  breath  that  he  considered  service  the  most 
honorable  part  of  his  career,  and  so  it  was.  I've  a  brother  in 
service,  and  a  brother-in-law.    My  Lady  a  good  temper  ?  " 

Mercury  replies,  "  As  good  as  you  can  expect." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "  a  little  spoilt  ?    A  little  capri- 
eious  ?    Lord !     What  can  you  anticipate  when  they're  so  ; 
handsome  as  that  ?    And  we  like  'em  all  the  better  for  it, 
don't  we  ?  " 

Mercury,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  bright  peach-  ■ 
blossom  small-clothes,  stretches  his  symmetrical  silk  legs  with 
the  air  of  a  man  of  gallantry,  and  can't  deny  it.    Come  the 
roll  of  wheels  and  a  violent  ringing  at  the  bell.    "  Talk  of  the  I 
angels,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.    "  Here  she  is  !  " 

The  doors  are  thrown  open,  and  she  passes  through  the  j 
hall.    Still  very  pale,  she  is  dressed  in  slight  mourning,  and  \ 
wears  two  beautiful  bracelets.    Either  their  beauty,  or  the 
beauty  of  her  arms,  is  particularly  attractive  to  Mr.  Bucket,  i 
He  looks  at  them  with  an  eager  eye,  and  rattles  something  in 
his  pocket  —  halfpence  perhaps. 

Noticing  him  at  his  distance,  she  turns  an  inquiring  look  on 
the  other  Mercury  who  has  brought  her  home. 

"  Mr.  Bucket,  my  Lady." 

Mr.  Bucket  makes  a  leg,  and  comes  forward,  passing  his 
familiar  demon  over  the  region  of  his  mouth. 
"Are  you  waiting  to  see  Sir  Leicester?" 
"No,  my  Lady,  I've  seen  him  ! " 
"Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me  ?  " 
"  Not  just  at  present,  my  Lady." 
"  Have  you  made  any  new  discoveries  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


311 


"  A  few,  my  Lady." 

This  is  merely  in  passing.  She  scarcely  makes  a  stop,  and 
sweeps  up-stairs  alone.  Mr.  Bucket,  moving  towards  the  stair- 
case foot,  watches  her  as  she  goes  up  the  steps  the  old  man 
came  down  to  his  grave ;  past  murderous  groups  of  statuary, 
repeated  with  their  shadowy  weapons  on  the  wall ;  past  the 
printed  bill,  which  she  looks  at  going  by;  out  of  view. 

"  She's  a  lovely  woman,  too,  she  really  is,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
coming  back  to  Mercury.    "  Don't  look  quite  healthy,  though." 

Is  not  quite  healthy,  Mercury  informs  him.  Suffers  much 
from  headaches. 

Really  ?  That's  a  pity !  Walking,  Mr.  Bucket  would  recom- 
mend for  that.  Well,  she  tries  walking,  Mercury  rejoins. 
Walks  sometimes  for  two  hours,  when  she  has  them  bad.  By 
night,  too. 

"  Are  you  sure  you're  quite  so  much  as  six  foot  three  ?  " 
asks  Mr.  Bucket,  "begging  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you 
a  moment  ?  " 

Not  a  doubt  about  it. 

"  You're  so  well  put  together  that  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
it.  But  the  household  troops,  though  considered  fine  men,  are 
built  so  straggling.  —  Walks  by  night,  does  she  ?  When  it's 
moonlight,  though  ?  " 

0  yes.  When  it's  moonlight !  Of  course.  0,  of  course ! 
Conversational  and  acquiescent  on  both  sides. 

"  I  suppose  you  ain't  in  the  habit  of  walking,  yourself  ? 99 
says  Mr.  Bucket.    "Not  much  time  for  it,  I  should  say  ?  " 

Besides  which,  Mercury  don't  like  it.  Prefers  carriage 
exercise. 

"  To  be  sure,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "  That  makes  a  difference. 
Now  I  think  of  it,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  warming  his  hands,  and 
looking  pleasantly  at  the  blaze,  "  she  went  out  walking,  the 
very  night  of  this  business." 

"  To  be  sure  she  did !  I  let  her  into  the  garden  over  the 
way." 

"  And  left  her  there.  Certainly  you  did.  I  saw  you  doing 
it," 

" I  didn't  see  you"  says  Mercury. 

"  I  was  rather  in  a  hurry,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  "  for  I  was 


312 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


going  to  visit  a  aunt  of  mine  that  lives  at  Chelsea  —  next  door  j 
but  two  to  the  old  original  Bun  House  —  ninety  year  old  the  | 
old  lady  is,  a  single  woman,  and  got  a  little  property.  Yes,  I 
I  chanced  to  be  passing  at  the  time.  Let's  see.  What  time  ! 
might  it  be  ?  It  wasn't  ten." 
"  Half-past  nine." 

"  You're  right.  So  it  was.  And  if  I  don't  deceive  myself, 
my  Lady  was  muffled  in  a  loose  black  mantle,  with  a  deep 
fringe  to  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  was." 

Of  course  she  was.  Mr.  Bucket  must  return  to  a  little  work 
he  has  to  get  on  with  up-stairs  ;  but  he  must  shake  hands  with 
Mercury  in  acknowledgment  of  his  agreeable  conversation,  and 
will  he  —  this  is  all  he  asks  —  will  he,  when  he  has  a  leisure 
half-hour,  think  of  bestowing  it  on  that  Eoyal  Academy 
Sculptor,  for  the  advantage  of  both  parties  ? 


SHADOW. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERC'.TY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


313 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

SPRINGING  A  MINE. 

Eefreshed  by  sleep,  Mr.  Bucket  rises  betimes  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  prepares  for  a  field-day.  Smartened  up  by  the  aid  of 
a  clean  shirt  and  a  wet  hair-brush,  with  which  instrument,  on 
occasions  of  ceremony,  he  lubricates  such  thin  locks  as  remain 
to  him  after  his  life  of  severe  study,  Mr.  Bucket  lays  in  a 
breakfast  of  two  mutton  chops  as  a  foundation  to  work  upon, 
together  with  tea,  eggs,  toast,  and  marmalade,  on  a  correspond- 
ing scale.  Having  much  enjoyed  these  strengthening  matters, 
and  having  held  subtle  conference  with  his  familiar  demon,  he 
confidently  instructs  Mercury  "just  to  mention  quietly  to  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  that  whenever  he's  ready  for  me, 
I'm  ready  for  him."  A  gracious  message  being  returned,  that 
Sir  Leicester  will  expedite  his  dressing  and  join  Mr.  Bucket 
in  the  library  within  ten  minutes,  Mr.  Bucket  repairs  to  that 
apartment ;  and  stands  before  the  fire,  with  his  finger  on  his 
chin,  looking  at  the  blazing  coals. 

Thoughtful  Mr.  Bucket  is ;  as  a  man  may  be,  with  weighty 
work  to  do ;  but  composed,  sure,  confident.  From  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  he  might  be  a  famous  whist-player  for  a  large 
stake  —  say  a  hundred  guineas  certain  —  with  the  game  in  his 
hand,  but  with  a  high  reputation  involved  in  his  playing  hLs 
hand  out  to  the  last  card,  in  a  masterly  way.  Not  in  the  least 
anxious  or  disturbed  is  Mr.  Bucket  when  Sir  Leicester  appears; 
but  he  eyes  the  baronet  aside  as  he  comes  slowly  to  his  easy- 
chair,  with  that  observant  gravity  of  yesterday,  in  which  there 
might  have  been  yesterday,  but  for  the  audacity  of  the  idea,  a 
touch  of  compassion. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  officer,  but  I  am 
rather  later  than  my  usual  hour  this  morning.  I  am  not  well. 
The  agitation,  and  the  indignation  from  which  I  have  recently 


3^4  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

suffered,  have  been  too  much  for  me.  I  am  subject  to -  gout; » 
Sir  Leicester  was  going  to  say  indisposition  and  would  have 
said  it  to  anybody  else,  but  Mr.  Bucket  palpably  knows  all 
about  it ;  «  and  recent  circumstances  have  brought  it  on. 

As  he  takes  his  seat  with  some  difficulty,  and  with  an  air  of 
pain,  Mr.  Bucket  draws  a  little  nearer,  standing  with  one  ot 
his  large  hands  on  the  library  table. 

«I  am  not  aware,  officer,"  Sir  Leicester  observes,  raising 
his  eyes  to  his  face,  "whether  you  wish  us  to  be  alone;  but 
that  is  entirely  as  you  please.  If  you  do,  well  and  good.  If 
not,  Miss  Dedlock  would  be  interested"—  „■„.,-«. 

"  Why  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket, 
with  his  head  persuasively  on  one  side,  and  his  forefinger 
pendent  at  one  ear  like  an  earring,  "we  can't  be  too  private, 
just  at  present.  You  will  presently  see  that  we  can  t  be  too 
private.  A  lady,  under  any  circumstances,  and  especially  m 
Miss  Dedlock's  elevated  station  of  society,  can't  but  be  agree- 
able to  me;  but  speaking  without  a  view  to  myself  I  will 
take  the  liberty  of  assuring  you  that  I  know  we  cant  be  too, 

private." 

"  That  is  enough." 

"So  much  so,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  Mr.  Bucket 
resumes,  "that  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  your  permission 
to  turn  the  key  in  the  door." 

"  By  all  means."  Mr.  Bucket  skilfully  and  softly  takes  th 
precaution ;  stooping  on  his  knee  for  a  moment  f rom  mere  for 
of  habit,  so  to  adjust  the  key  in  the  lock  as  that  no  one  she 
peep  in  from  the  outerside. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  mentioned  yesteida 
evening,  that  I  wanted  but  a  very  little  to  complete  this  case 
I  have  now  completed  it,  and  collected  proof  against  the  persoi 
who  did  this  crime." 

"  Against  the  soldier  ?  " 

"  No  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock ;  not  the  soldier. 

Sir  Leicester  looks  astounded,  and  inquires,  "Is  the  man  I 

CUMrdBucket  tells  him,  after  a  pause,  "It  was  »  ™an-" 

Sir  Leicester  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  breathlessly  ejaci 
lates,  "  Good  Heaven  ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


315 


"Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet/'  Mr.  Bucket  begins, 
standing  over  him  with  one  hand  spread  out  on  the  library 
table,  and  the  forefinger  of  the  other  in  impressive  use,  "it's 
my  duty  to  prepare  you  for  a  train  of  circumstances  that  may, 
and  I  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  will,  give  you  a  shock.  But  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  you  are  a  gentleman ;  and  I  know 
what  a  gentleman  is,  and  what  a  gentleman  is  capable  of. 
A  gentleman  can  bear  a  shock,  when  it  must  come,  boldly  and 
steadily.  A  gentleman  can  make  up  his  mind  to  stand  up 
against  almost  any  blow.  Why,  take  yourself,  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet.  If  there's  a  blow  to  be  inflicted  on  you, 
you  naturally  think  of  your  family.  You  ask  yourself,  how 
would  all  them  ancestors  of  yours,  away  to  Julius  Caesar  — 
not  to  go  beyond  him  at  present  —  have  borne  that  blow;  you 
remember  scores  of  them  that  would  have  borne  it  well ;  and 
you  bear  it  well  on  their  accounts,  and  to  maintain  the  family 
credit.  That's  the  way  you  argue,  and  that's  the  way  you  act, 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet." 

Sir  Leicester,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  grasping  the 
elbows,  sits  looking  at  him  with  a  stony  face. 

"  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  proceeds  Mr.  Bucket,  "  thus 
preparing  you,  let  me  beg  of  you  not  to  trouble  your  mind  for 
a  moment,  as  to  anything  having  come  to  my  knowledge.  I 
know  so  much  about  so  many  characters,  high  and  low,  that 
a  piece  of  information  more  or  less,  don't  signify  a  straw.  I 
don't  suppose  there's  a  move  on  the  board  that  would  surprise 
me  ;  and  as  to  this  or  that  move  having  taken  place,  why  my 
knowing  it  is  no  odcls  at  all ;  any  possible  move  whatever 
(provided  it's  in  a  wrong  direction)  being  a  probable  move 
according  to  my  experience.  Therefore,  what  I  say  to  you, 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  is,  don't  you  go  and  let 
yourself  be  put  out  of  the  way,  because  of  my  knowing  any- 
thing of  your  family  affairs." 

"I  thank  you  for  your  preparation,"  returns  Sir  Leicester, 
after  a  silence,  without  moving  hand,  foot,  or  feature  ;  "  which 
I  hope  is  not  necessary,  though  I  give  it  credit  for  being  well 
intended.  Be  so  good  as  to  go  on.  Also  ; "  Sir  Leicester 
seems  to  shrink  in  the  shadow  of  his  figure  ;  "also,  to  take  a 
seat,  if  you  have  no  objection." 


316 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


None  at  all.  Mr.  Bucket  brings  a  chair,  and  diminishes 
his  shadow.  "Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  with 
this  short  preface  I  come  to  the  point.    Lady  Dedlock  "  — 

Sir  Leicester  raises  himself  in  his  seat,  and  stares  at  him 
fiercely.  Mr.  Bucket  brings  the  finger  into  play  as  an 
emollient. 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  you  see,  she's  universally  admired. 
That's  what  her  Ladyship  is ;  she's  universally  admired," 
says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"I  would  greatly  prefer,  officer,"  Sir  Leicester  returns, 
stiffly,  "  my  Lady's  name  being  entirely  omitted  from  this 
discussion." 

"So  would  I,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  but  —  it's 
impossible." 
"  Impossible  ?  " 

Mr.  Bucket  shakes  his  relentless  head. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it's  altogether  impossible. 
What  I  have  got  to  say,  is  about  her  Ladyship.  She  is  the 
pivot  it  all  turns  on." 

"Officer,"  retorts  Sir  Leicester,  with  a  fiery  eye,  and  a 
quivering  lip,  "you  know  your  duty.  Do  your  duty  ;  but  be 
careful  not  to  overstep  it.  I  would  not  suffer  it.  I  would  not 
endure  it.  You  bring  my  Lady's  name  into  this  communica-  \ 
tion  upon  your  responsibility  —  upon  your  responsibility. 
My  Lady's  name  is  not  a  name  for  common  persons  to  trifle  j 
with ! " 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  say  what  I  must  say ;  ] 
and  no  more." 

"  I  hope  it  may  prove  so.   Very  well.   Go  on.    Go  on,  sir !  " 

Glancing  at  the  angry  eyes  which  now  avoid  him,  and  at 
the  angry  figure  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  yet  striving  to 
be  still,  Mr.  Bucket  feels  his  way  with  his  forefinger,  and  in  a 
low  voice  proceeds. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it  becomes  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  long  entertained  mis- 
trusts and  suspicions  of  Lady  Dedlock." 

"If  he  had  dared  to  breathe  them  to  me,  sir  —  which  he 
never  did  —  I  would  have  killed  him  myself!"  exclaims  Sir  I 
Leicester,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table.    But,  in  the  very 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


317 


heat  and  fury  of  the  act,  he  stops,  fixed  by  the  knowing  eyes 
of  Mr.  Bucket,  whose  forefinger  is  slowly  going,  and  who, 
with  mingled  confidence  and  patience,  shakes  his  head. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  was 
deep  and  close ;  and  what  he  fully  had  in  his  mind  in  the 
very  beginning,  I  can't  quite  take  upon  myself  to  say.  But  I 
know  from  his  lips,  that  he  long  ago  suspected  Lady  Dedlock 
of  having  discovered,  through  the  sight  of  some  handwriting 
—  in  this  very  house,  and  when  you  yourself,  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  were  present  —  the  existence,  in  great  poverty,  of  a 
certain  person,  who  had  been  her  lover  before  you  courted  her, 
and  wrho  ought  to  have  been  her  husband ; "  Mr.  Bucket  stops, 
and  deliberately  repeats,  "  ought  to  have  been  her  husband  ; 
not  a  doubt  about  it.  I  know  from  his  lips,  that  when  that 
person  soon  afterwards  died,  he  suspected  Lady  Dedlock  of 
visiting  his  wretched  lodging,  and  his  wretcheder  grave, 
alone  and  in  secret.  I  know  from  my  own  inquiries,  and 
through  my  eyes  and  ears,  that  Lady  Dedlock  did  make  such 
visit,  in  the  dress  of  her  own  maid ;  for  the  deceased  Mr. 
Tulkinghorn  employed  me  to  reckon  up  her  Ladyship  —  if 
you'll  excuse  my  making  use  of  the  term  we  commonly 
employ  —  and  I  reckoned  her  up,  so  far,  completely.  I  con- 
fronted the  maid,  in  the  chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
with  a  witness  who  had  been  Lady  Dedlock's  guide ;  and 
there  couldn't  be  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  she  had  worn  the 
young  woman's  dress,  unknown  to  her.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock, Baronet,  I  did  endeavor  to  pave  the  way  a  little 
towards  these  unpleasant  disclosures  yesterday,  by  saying  that 
very  strange  things  happened  even  in  high  families  sometimes. 
All  this,  and  more,  has  happened  in  your  own  family,  and  to 
and  through  your  own  Lady.  It's  my  belief  that  the  deceased 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn  followed  up  these  inquiries  to  the  hour  of 
his  death ;  and  that  he  and  Lady  Dedlock  even  had  bad 
blood  between  them  upon  the  matter,  that  very  night.  Now, 
only  you  put  that  to  Lady  Dedlock,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  and  ask  her  Ladyship  whether,  even  after  he  had 
left  here,  she  didn't  go  down  to  his  chambers  with  the  inten- 
tion of  saying  something  further  to  him,  dressed  in  a  loose 
black  mantle  with  a  deep  fringe  to  it." 


318 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Sir  Leicester  sits  like  a  statue,  gazing  at  the  cruel  finger 
that  is  probing  the  life-blood  of  his  heart. 

"You  put  that  to  her  Ladyship,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  from  me,  Inspector  Bucket  of  the  Detective.  And  if 
her  Ladyship  makes  any  difficulty  about  admitting  of  it,  you 
tell  her  that  it's  no  use ;  that  Inspector  Bucket  knows  it,  and 
knows  that  she  passed  the  soldier  as  you  called  him  (though 
he's  not  in  the  army  now),  and  knows  that  she  knows  she 
passed  him,  on  the  staircase.  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  why  do  I  relate  all  this  ?  " 

Sir  Leicester,  who  has  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
uttering  a  single  groan,  requests  him  to  pause  for  a  moment. 
By  and  by,  he  takes  his  hands  away ;  and  so  preserves  his 
dignity  and  outward  calmness,  though  there  is  no  more  color 
in  his  face  than  in  his  white  hair,  that  Mr.  Bucket  is  a  little 
awed  by  him.  Something  frozen  and  fixed  is  upon  his 
manner,  over  and  above  its  usual  shell  of  haughtiness ;  and 
Mr.  Bucket  soon  detects  an  unusual  slowness  in  his  speech, 
with  now  and  then  a  curious  trouble  in  beginning,  which 
occasions  him  to  utter  inarticulate  sounds.  With  such  sounds 
he  now  breaks  silence ;  soon,  however,  controlling  himself  to 
say,  that  he  does  not  comprehend  why  a  gentleman  so  faithful 
and  zealous  as  the  late  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  should  have  commu- 
nicated to  him  nothing  of  this  painful,  this  distressing,  this 
unlooked-for,  this  overwhelming,  this  incredible  intelligence,  i 

"  Again,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  returns  Mr.  j 
Bucket,  "  put  it  to  her  Ladyship  to  clear  that  up.  Put  it  to 
her  Ladyship,  if  you  think  right,  from  Inspector  Bucket  of  ' 
the  Detective.  You'll  find,  or  I'm  much  mistaken,  that  the 
deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  had  the  intention  of  communicating 
the  whole  to  you,  as  soon  as  he  considered  it  ripe ;  and 
further,  that  he  had  given  her  Ladyship  so  to  understand. 
Why,  he  might  have  been  going  to  reveal  it  on  the  very 
morning  when  I  examined  the  body  !  You  don't  know  what 
I'm  going  to  say  and  do,  five  minutes  from  this  present  time, 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet ;  and  supposing  I  was  to  be 
picked  off  now,  you  might  wonder  why  I  hadn't  done  it,  don't 
you  see  ?  " 

True.    Sir  Leicester,  avoiding  with  some  trouble,  those 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


319 


obtrusive  sounds,  says,  "  True."  At  this  juncture,  a  consider- 
able noise  of  voices  is  heard  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Bucket,  after 
listening,  goes  to  the  library  door,  softly  unlocks  and  opens  it, 
and  listens  again.  Then  he  draws  in  his  head,  and  whispers, 
hurriedly,  but  composedly,  "  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
this  unfortunate  family  affair  has  taken  air,  as  I  expected  it 
might;  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  being  cut  down  so 
sudden.  The  chance  to  hush  it,  is  to  let  in  these  people,  now 
in  a  wrangle  with  your  footmen.  Would  you  mind  sitting 
qUiet  —  on  the  family  account  —  while  I  reckon  'em  up  ?  And 
would  you  just  throw  in  a  nod,  when  I  seem  to  ask  you  for 
it?" 

Sir  Leicester  indistinctly  answers,  "  Officer.  The  best  you 
can,  the  best  you  can  !  "  and  Mr.  Bucket,  with  a  nod  and  a 
sagacious  crook  of  the  forefinger,  slips  down  into  the  hall, 
where  the  voices  quickly  die  away.  He  is  not  long  in 
returning,  a  few  paces  ahead  of  Mercury,  and  a  brother  deity, 
also  powdered  and  in  peach-blossom  smalls,  who  bear  between 
them  a  chair  in  which  is  an  incapable  old  man.  Another 
man  and  two  women  come  behind.  Directing  the  pitching  of 
the  chair,  in  an  affable  and  easy  manner,  Mr.  Bucket  dismisses 
the  Mercuries,  and  locks  the  door  again.  Sir  Leicester  looks 
on  at  this  invasion  of  the  sacred  precincts  with  an  icy  stare. 

"Now,  perhaps  you  may  know  me,  ladies  and  gentlemen," 
says  Mr.  Bucket,  in  a  confidential  voice.  "I  am  Inspector 
Bucket  of  the  Detective,  I  am  ;  and  this,"  producing  the  tip 
of  his  convenient  little  staff  from  his  breast-pocket,  "is  my 
authority.  Now,  you  wanted  to  see  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet.  Well!  You  do  see  him;  and,  mind  you,  it  ain't 
every  one  as  is  admitted  to  that  honor.  Your  name,  old 
gentleman,  is  Smallweed ;  that's  what  your  name  is ;  I  know 
it  well." 

"Well,  and  you  never  heard  any  harm  of  it!"  cries  Mr. 
Smallweed  in  a  shrill  loud  voice. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  why  they  killed  the  pig,  do 
you?"  retorts  Mr.  Bucket,  with  a  steadfast  look,  but  without 
loss  of  temper. 

"No!" 

"  Why,  they  killed  him/'  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "  on  account  of 


320 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


his  having  so  much  cheek.  Don't  you  get  into  the  same 
position,  because  it  isn't  worthy  of  you.  You  ain't  in  the 
habit  of  conversing  with  a  deaf  person,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  snarls  Mr.  Smallweed,  "  my  wife's  deaf." 

"  That  accounts  for  your  pitching  your  voice  so  high.  But 
as  she  ain't  here,  just  pitch  it  an  octave  or  two  lower,  will 
you,  and  I'll  not  only  be  obliged  to  you,  but  it'll  do  you  more 
credit,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "  This  other  gentleman  is  in  the 
preaching  line,  I  think  ?  " 

"Name  of  Chadband,"  Mr.  Smallweed  puts  in,  speaking 
henceforth  in  a  much  lower  key. 

"  Once  had  a  friend  and  brother  sergeant  of  the  same  name," 
says  Mr.  Bucket,  offering  his  hand,  "  and  consequently  feel  a 
liking  for  it.    Mrs.  Chadband,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  And  Mrs.  Snagsby,"  Mr.  Smallweed  introduces. 

"  Husband  a  law-stationer,  and  a  friend  of  my  own,"  says 
Mr.  Bucket.    "  Love  him  like  a  brother !  —  Now,  what's  up  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  what  business  have  we  come  upon  ?  "  Mr. 
Smallweed  asks,  a  little  dashed  by  the  suddenness  of  this 
turn ! 

aAh!  You  know  what  I  mean.  Let  us  hear  what  it's  all 
about  in  presence  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet.    Come !  1 

Mr.  Smallweed,  beckoning  Mr.  Chadband,  takes  a  moment's 
counsel  with  him  in  a  whisper.    Mr.  Chadband,  expressing  a ' 
considerable  amount  of  oil  from  the  pores  of  his  forehead  and 
the  palms  of  his  hands,  says  aloud,  "Yes.    You  first!"  and] 
retires  to  his  former  place. 

"I  was  the  client  and  friend  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,"  pipes' 
Grandfather  Smallweed,  then ;  "  I  did  business  wTith  him.  I 
was  useful  to  him,  and  he  was  useful  to  me.  Krook,  dead 
and  gone,  was  my  brother-in-law.  He  was  own  brother  to  a 
brimstone  magpie  —  leastways  Mrs.  Smallweed.  I  come  into 
Krook's  property.  I  examined  all  his  papers  and  all  his 
effects.  They  was  all  dug  out  under  my  eyes.  There  was  a 
bundle  of  letters  belonging  to  a  dead  and  gone  lodger,  as  was 
hid  away  at  the  back  of  a  shelf  in  the  side  of  Lady  Jane's 
bed  —  his  cat's  bed.  He  hid  all  manner  of  things  away, 
cverywheres.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  wanted  'em  and  got  'em,  but 
I  looked  'em  over  first.    I'm  a  man  of  business,  and  I  took  a 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


321 


squint  at  'ein.  They  was  letters  from  the  lodger's  sweetheart, 
and  she  signed  Honoria.  Dear  me,  that's  not  a  common  name, 
Honoria,  is  it.  There's  no  lady  in  this  house  that  signs 
Honoria,  is  there  ?  0  no,  I  don't  think  so !  0  no,  I  don't 
think  so !  And  not  in  the  same  hand,  perhaps  ?  0  no,  I 
don't  think  so  ! " 

Here  Mr.  Smallweed,  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing  in  the 
midst  of  his  triumph,  breaks  off  to  ejaculate  "0  dear  me !  0 
Lord  !  I'm  shaken  all  to  pieces  ! " 

"  Now,  when  you're  ready,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  after  awaiting 
his  recovery,  "to  come  to  anything  that  concerns  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet,  here  the  gentleman  sits,  you  know." 

"Haven't  I  come  to  it,  Mr.  Bucket?"  cries  Grandfather 
Smallweed.  "  Isn't  the  gentleman  concerned  yet  ?  Not  with 
Captain  Hawdon  and  his  ever  affectionate  Honoria,  and  their 
child  into  the  bargain  ?  Come,  then,  I  want  to  know  where 
those  letters  are.  That  concerns  me,  if  it  don't  concern  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock.  I  will  know  where  they  are.  I  won't 
have  'em  disappear  so  quietly.  I  handed  'em  over  to  my 
friend  and  solicitor,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn ;  not  to  anybody  else." 

"  Why  he  paid  you  for  them,  you  know,  and  handsome  too," 
says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  I  don't  care  for  that.  I  want  to  know  who's  got  'em. 
And  I  tell  you  what  Ave  want  —  what  we  all  here  want,  Mr. 
Bucket.  We  want  more  painstaking  and  search-making  into 
this  murder.  We  know  where  the  interest  and  the  motive 
was,  and  you  have  not  done  enough.  If  George  the  vagabond 
dragoon  had  any  hand  in  it,  he  was  only  an  accomplice,  and 
was  set  on.    You  know  what  I  mean  as  well  as  any  man." 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  instantaneously 
altering  his  manner,  coming  close  to  him,  and  communicating 
an  extraordinary  fascination  to  the  forefinger,  "I  am  damned 
if  I  am  a  going  to  have  my  case  spoilt,  or  interfered  with,  or 
anticipated  by  so  much  as  half  a  second  of  time,  by  any  human 
being  in  creation.  You  want  more  painstaking  and  search- 
making  ?  You  do  ?  Do  you  see  this  hand,  and  do  you  think 
that  /  don't  know  the  right  time  to  stretch  it  out,  and  put  it 
on  the  arm  that  fired  that  shot  ?  " 

Such  is  the  dread  power  of  the  man,  and  so  terribly  evident 

VOL.  II. 


322 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


it  is  that  he  makes  no  idle  boast,  that  Mr.  Smallweed  begins 
to  apologize.  Mr.  Backet,  dismissing  his  sudden  anger,  checks 
him. 

"  The  advice  I  give  you  is,  don't  you  trouble  your  head 
about  the  murder.  That's  my  affair.  You  keep  half  an  eye 
on  the  newspapers  ;  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  was  to 
read  something  about  it  before  long,  if  you  look  sharp.  I 
know  my  business,  and  that's  all  I've  got  to  say  to  you  on 
that  subject.  Now  about  those  letters.  You  want  to  know 
who's  got  'em.  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  /  have  got  'em. 
Is  that  the  packet  ?  " 

Mr.  Smallweed  looks,  with  greedy  eyes,  at  the  little  bundle 
Mr.  Bucket  produces  from  a  mysterious  part  of  his  coat,  and 
identifies  it  as  the  same. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  next  ? "  asks  Mr.  Bucket. 
"Now,  don't  open  your  mouth  too  wide,  because  you  don't 
look  handsome  when  you  do  it." 

"  I  want  five  hundred  pound." 

"No,  you  don't;  you  mean  fifty,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  humor- 
ously. 

It  appears,  however,  that  Mr.  Smallweed  means  five  hundred. 

"  That  is,  I  am  deputed  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
to  consider  (without  admitting  or  promising  anything)  this  bit 
of  business,"  says  Mr.  Bucket;  Sir  Leicester  mechanically 
bows  his  head;  "and  you  ask  me  to  consider  a  proposal  of 
five  hundred  pound.  Why,  it's  an  unreasonable  proposal ! 
Two  fifty  would  be  bad  enough,  but  better  than  that.  Hadn't 
you  better  say  two  fifty  ?  " 

Mr.  Smallweed  is  quite  clear  that  he  had  better  not. 

"  Then,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "let's  hear  Mr.  Chadband,  Lord ! 
Many  a  time  I've  heard  my  old  fellow-sergeant  of  that  name ; 
and  a  moderate  man  he  was  in  all  respects,  as  ever  I  come 
across ! " 

Thus  invited,  Mr.  Chadband  steps  forth,  and,  after  a  little 
sleek  smiling,  and  a  little  oil-grinding  with  the  palms  of  his 
hands,  delivers  himself  as  follows  :  — 

"My  friends,  we  are  now  —  Rachael  my  wife,  and  I  —  in 
the  mansions  of  the  rich  and  great.  Why  are  we  now  in  the 
mansions  of  the  rich  and  great,  my  friends  ?  Is  it  because  we 


J3LEAK  HOUSE. 


323 


are  invited?  Because  we  are  bidden  to  feast  with  them, 
because  we  are  bidden  to  rejoice  with  them,  because  we  are 
bidden  to  play  the  lute  with  them,  because  we  are  bidden  to 
dance  with  them  ?  No.  Then  why  are  we  here,  my  friends  ? 
Air  we  in  possession  of  a  sinful  secret,  and  doe  we  require 
corn,  and  wine,  and  oil  —  or,  what  is  much  the  same  thing, 
money  —  for  the  keeping  thereof  ?    Probably  so,  my  friends/' 

"  You're  a  man  of  business,  you  are,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket, 
very  attentive  ;  a  and  consequently  you're  going  on  to  mention 
what  the  nature  of  your  secret  is.  You  are  right.  You 
couldn't  do  better." 

"  Let  us  then,  my  brother,  in  a  spirit  of  love,"  says  Mr. 
Chadband,  with  a  cunning  eye,  "proceed  untoe  it.  Rachael, 
my  wife,  advance!" 

Mrs.  Chadband,  more  than  ready,  so  advances  as  to  jostle 
her  husband  into  the  background,  and  confronts  Mr.  Bucket 
with  a  hard  frowning  smile. 

"  Since  you  want  to  know  what  we  know,"  says  she,  "  I'll 
tell  you.  I  helped  to  bring  up  Miss  Hawdon,  her  Ladyship's 
daughter.  I  was  in  the  service  of  her  Ladyship's  sister,  who 
was  very  sensitive  to  the  disgrace  her  Ladyship  brought  upon 
her,  and  gave  out,  even  to  her  Ladyship,  that  the  child  was 
dead  — she  was  very  neariy  so  — when  she  was  born.  But 
she's  alive,  and  I  know  her."  With  these  words,  and  a  laugh, 
and  laying  a  bitter  stress  on  the  word  "  Ladyship,"  Mrs. 
Chadband  folds  her  arms,  and  looks  implacably  at  Mr.  Bucket. 

"I  suppose  now,"  returns  that  officer,  "you  will  be  expect- 
ing a  twenty-pound  note,  or  a  present  of  about  that  figure  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chadband  merely  laughs,  and  contemptuously  tells  him 
he  can  "  offer  "  twenty  pence. 

"  My  friend  the  law-stationer's  good  lady  over  there,"  says 
Mr.  Bucket,  luring  Mrs.  Snagsby  forward  with  the  finger. 
"What  may  your  game  be,  ma'am  ?  " 

Mrs.  Snagsby  is  at  first  prevented,  by  tears  and  lamenta- 
tions, from  stating  the  nature  of  her  game  :  but  by  degrees  it 
confusedly  comes  to  light,  that  she  is  a  woman  overwhelmed 
with  injuries  and  wrongs,  whom  Mr.  Snagsby  has  habitually 
deceived,  abandoned,  and  sought  to  keep  in  darkness,  and 
whose  chief  comfort,  under  her  afflictions,  has  been  the 


324 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


sympathy  of  the  late  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  ;  who  showed  so  much 
commiseration  for  her,  on  one  occasion  of  his  calling  in 
Cook's  Court  in  the  absence  of  her  perjured  husband,  that  she 
has  of  late  habitually  carried  to  him  all  her  woes.  Everybody 
it  appears,  the  present  company  excepted,  has  plotted  against 
Mrs.  Snagsby's  peace.  There  is  Mr.  Guppy,  clerk  to  Kenge 
and  Carboy,  who  was  at  first  as  open  as  the  sun  at 
noon,  but  who  suddenly  shut  up  as  close  as  midnight,  under 
the  influence  —  no  doubt — of  Mr.  Snagsby's  suborning  and 
tampering.  There  is  Mr.  Weevle,  friend  of  Mr.  Guppy,  who 
lived  mysteriously  up  a  court,  owing  to  the  like  coherent 
causes.  There  was  Krook,  deceased ;  there  was  Nimrod, 
deceased ;  and  there  was  Jo,  deceased ;  and  they  were  "  all  in 
it."  In  what,  Mrs.  Snagsby  does  not  with  particularity 
express;  but  she  knows  that  Jo  was  Mr.  Snagsby's  son,  "as 
well  as  if  a  trumpet  had  spoken  it,"  and  she  followed  Mr. 
Snagsby  when  he  went  on  his  last  visit  to  the  boy,  and  if  he 
was  not  his  son  why  did  he  go  ?  The  one  occupation  of  her 
life  has  been,  for  some  time  back,  to  follow  Mr.  Snagsby  to 
and  fro,  and  up  and  down,  and  to  piece  suspicious  circum- 
stances together  —  and  every  circumstance  that  has  happened 
has  been  most  suspicious ;  and  in  this  way  she  has  pursued 
her  object  of  detecting  and  confounding  her  false  husband, 
night  and  day.  Thus  did  it  come  to  pass  that  she  brought 
the  Chadbands  and  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  together,  and  conferred 
with  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  on  the  change  in  Mr.  Guppy,  and 
helped  to  turn  up  the  circumstances  in  which  the  present 
company  are  interested,  casually  by  the  wayside ;  being  still 
and  ever,  on  the  great  high  road  that  is  to  terminate  in  Mr. 
Snagsby's  full  exposure  and  a  matrimonial  separation.  All 
this,  Mrs.  Snagsby,  as  an  injured  woman,  and  the  friend  of 
Mrs.  Chadband,  and  the  follower  of  Mr.  Chadband,  and  the 
mourner  of  the  late  Mr  Tulkinghorn,  is  here  to  certify  under 
the  seal  of  confidence,  with  every  possible  confusion  and 
involvement  possible  and  impossible  ;  having  no  pecuniary 
motive  whatever,  no  scheme  or  project  but  the  one  mentioned  ; 
and  bringing  here,  and  taking  everywhere,  her  own  dense 
atmosphere  of  dust,  arising  from  the  ceaseless  working  of  her 
mill  of  jealousy. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


325 


While  this  exordium  is  in  hand  —  and  it  takes  some  time  — 
Mr.  Bucket,  who  has  seen  through  the  transparency  of  Mrs. 
Snagsby's  vinegar  at  a  glance,  confers  with  his  familiar 
demon,  and  bestows  his  shrewd  attention  on  the  Chadbands 
and  Mr.  Smallweed.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  remains  immov- 
able, with  the  same  icy  surface  upon  him  ;  except  that  he 
once  or  twice  looks  towards  Mr.  Bucket,  as  relying  on  that 
officer  alone  of  all  mankind. 

"  Very  good,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Now  I  understand  you, 
you  know  ;  and,  being  deputed  by  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  to  look  into  this  little  matter,"  again  Sir  Leicester 
mechanically  bows  in  confirmation  of  the  statement,  "can 
give  it  my  fair  and  full  attention.  Now  I  won't  allude  to 
conspiring  to  extort  money,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  because 
we  are  men  and  women  of  the  world  here,  and  our  object  is  to 
make  things  pleasant.  But  I  tell  you  what  I  do  wonder  at ;  I 
am  surprised  that  you  should  think  of  making  a  noise  below 
in  the  hall.  It  was  so  opposed  to  your  interests.  That's 
what  I  look  at." 

"  We  wanted  to  get  in,"  pleads  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  wanted  to  get  in,"  Mr.  Bucket  assents 
with  cheerfulness  ;  "but  for  a  old  gentleman  at  your  time  of 
life  —  what  I  call  truly  venerable,  mind  you  !  —  with  his  wits 
sharpened,  as  I  have  no  doubt  they  are,  by  the  loss  of  the  use 
of  his  limbs,  which  occasions  all  his  animation  to  mount  up 
into  his  head  —  not  to  consider  that  if  he  don't  keep  such  a 
business  as  the  present  as  close  as  possible  it  can't  be  worth  a 
mag  to  him,  is  so  curious  !  You  see  your  temper  got  the 
better  of  you,  that's  where  you  lost  ground,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
in  an  argumentative  and  friendly  way. 

"  I  only  said  I  wouldn't  go,  without  one  of  the  servants 
came  up  to  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  returns  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  That's  it !  That's  where  your  temper  got  the  better  of 
you.  Now,  you  keep  it  under  another  time,  and  you'll  make 
money  by  it.    Shall  I  ring  for  them  to  carry  you  down  ?  " 

"  When  are  we  to  hear  more  of  this  ? "  Mrs.  Chadband 
sternly  demands. 

"  Bless  your  heart  for  a  true  woman !  Always  curious, 
your  delightful  sex  is  ! "  replies  Mr.  Bucket,  with  gallantry. 


326 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  a  call  to-morrow  or 
next  day  —  not  forgetting  Mr.  Smallweed  and  his  proposal  of 
two  fifty." 

"  Five  hundred !  "  exclaims  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  All  right !  Nominally  five  hundred ;  "  Mr.  Bucket  has 
his  hand  on  the  bell-rope  ;  "  shall  I  wish  you  good-day  for  the 
present,  on  the  part  of  myself  and  the  gentleman  of  the 
house  ?  "  he  asks  in  an  insinuating  tone. 

Nobody  having  the  hardihood  to  object  to  his  doing  so,  he 
does  it,  and  the  party  retire  as  they  came  up.  Mr.  Bucket 
follows  them  to  the  door ;  and,  returning,  says  with  an  air  of 
serious  business,  — 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  it's  for  you  to  consider 
whether  or  not  to  buy  this  up.  I  should  recommend,  on 
the  whole,  it's  being  bought  up  myself ;  and  I  think  it  may 
be  bought  pretty  cheap.  You  see,  that  little  pickled  cow- 
cumber  of  a  Mrs.  Snagsby  has  been  used  by  all  sides  of  the 
speculation,  and  has  done  a  deal  more  harm  in  bringing  odds 
and  ends  together  than  if  she  had  meant  it.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn, 
deceased,  he  held  all  these  horses  in  his  hand,  and  could  have 
drove  'em  his  own  way,  I  haven't  a  doubt ;  but  he  was  fetched 
off  the  box  head-foremost,  and  now  they  have  got  their  legs 
over  the  traces,  and  are  all  dragging  and  pulling  their  own 
ways.  So  it  is,  and  such  is  life.  The  cat's  away,  and  the 
mice  they  play ;  the  frost  breaks  up,  and  the  water  runs. 
Now,  with  regard  to  the  party  to  be  apprehended." 

Sir  Leicester  seems  to  wake,  though  his  eyes  have  been 
wide  open ;  and  he  looks  intently  at  Mr.  Bucket,  as  Mr. 
Bucket  refers  to  his  watch. 

"  The  party  to  be  apprehended  is  now  in  this  house," 
proceeds  Mr.  Bucket  putting  up  his  watch  with  a  steady 
hand,  and  with  rising  spirits,  "  and  I'm  about  to  take  her 
into  custody  in  your  presence.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
don't  you  say  a  word,  nor  yet  stir.  There'll  be  no  noise,  and 
no  disturbance  at  all.  I'll  come  back  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  if  agreeable,  to  you,  and  endeavor  to  meet  your 
wishes  respecting  this  unfortunate  family  matter,  and  the 
nobbiest  way  of  keeping  it  quiet.  Now  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  don't  you  be  nervous  on  account  of  the  apprehension 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


327 


at  present  coming  off.  You  shall  see  the  whole  case  clear, 
from  first  to  last." 

Mr.  Bucket  rings,  goes  to  the  door,  briefly  whispers  Mer- 
cury, shuts  the  door,  and  stands  behind  it  with  his  arms 
folded.  After  a  suspense  of  a  minute  or  two,  the  door  slowly 
opens,  and  a  French  woman  enters.    Mademoiselle  Hortense. 

The  moment  she  is  in  the  room,  Mr.  Bucket  claps  the  door 
to,  and  puts  his  back  against  it.  The  suddenness  of  the  noise 
occasions  her  to  turn ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  she  sees 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  in  his  chair. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,"  she  mutters  hurriedly.  "  They  tell 
me  there  was  no  one  here." 

Her  step  towards  the  door  brings  her  front  to  front  with 
Mr.  Bucket.  Suddenly  a  spasm  shoots  across  her  face,  and 
she  turns  deadly  pale. 

"  This  is  my  lodger,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
nodding  at  her.  "  This  foreign  young  woman  has  been  my 
lodger  for  some  weeks  back." 

"  What  do  Sir  Leicester  care  for  that,  you  think,  my  angel  ?  " 
returns  Mademoiselle,  in  a  jocular  strain. 

"Why,  my  angel,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  "we  shall  see." 

Mademoiselle  Hortense  eyes  him  with  a  scowl  upon  her 
tight  face,  which  gradually  changes  into  a  smile  of  scorn. 
"  You  are  very  mysterieuse.    Are  you  drunk  ?  " 

"Tolerable  sober,  my  angel,"  returns  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  I  come  from  arriving  at  this  so  detestable  house  with  your 
wife.  Your  wife  have  left  me,  since  some  minutes.  They 
tell  me  down-stairs  that  your  wife  is  here.  I  come  here,  and 
your  wife  is  not  here.  What  is  the  intention  of  this  fool's 
play,  say  then  ? "  Mademoiselle  demands,  with  her  arms 
composedly  crossed,  but  with  something  in  her  dark  cheek 
beating  like  a  clock. 

Mr.  Bucket  merely  shakes  the  finger  at  her. 

"Ah  my  God,  you  are  an  unhappy  idiot!"  cries  Made- 
moiselle, with  a  toss  of  her  head  and  a  laugh.  —  "  Leave  me 
to  pass  down-stairs,  great  pig."  With  a  stamp  of  her  foot, 
and  a  menace. 

"Now,  Mademoiselle,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  in  a  cool  deter- 
mined way,  "  you  go  and  sit  down  upon  that  sofy." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"I  will  not  sit  down  upon  nothing/'  she  replies,  with  a 
shower  of  nods. 

"Now,  Mademoiselle,"  repeats  Mr.  Bucket,  making  no 
demonstration,  except  with  the  ringer ;  "  you  sit  down  upon 
that  sofy." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  take  you  into  custody  on  a  charge  of  murder, 
and  you  don't  need  to  be  told  it.  Now,  I  want  to  be  polite  to 
one  of  your  sex  and  a  foreigner,  if  I  can.  If  I  can't,  I  must 
be  rough ;  and  there's  rougher  ones  outside.  What  I  am  to 
be,  depends  on  you.  So  I  recommend  you,  as  a  friend,  afore 
another  half  a  blessed  moment  has  passed  over  your  head,  to 
go  and  sit  down  upon  that  sofy." 

Mademoiselle  complies,  saying  in  a  concentrated  voice, 
while  that  something  in  her  cheek  beats  fast  and  hard,  "  You 
are  a  Devil." 

"Now,  you  see,"  Mr.  Bucket  proceeds  approvingly,  "you're 
comfortable,  and  conducting  yourself  as  I  should  expect  a 
foreign  young  woman  of  your  sense  to  do.  So  I'll  give  you 
a  piece  of  advice,  and  it's  this,  Don't  you  talk  too  much. 
You're  not  expected  to  say  anything  here,  and  you  can't  keep 
too  quiet  a  tongue  in  your  head.  In  short,  the  less  you  Par- 
lay, the  better,  you  know."  Mr.  Bucket  is  very  complacent 
over  this  French  explanation. 

Mademoiselle,  with  that  tigerish  expansion  of  the  mouth, 
and  her  black  eyes  darting  fire  upon  him,  sits  upright  on  the 
sofa  in  a  rigid  state,  with  her  hands  clinched  —  and  her  feet 
too,  one  might  suppose  —  muttering,  "  0,  you  Bucket,  you  are 
a  Devil !  " 

"  Now,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
and  from  this  time  forth  the  finger  never  rests,  "this  young 
woman,  my  lodger,  was  her  Ladyship's  maid  at  the  time  I 
have  mentioned  to  you ;  and  this  young  woman,  besides  being 
extraordinary  vehement  and  passionate  against  her  Ladyship 
after  being  discharged  "  — 

"Lie!"  cries  Mademoiselle.    "I  discharge  myself." 

"  Now,  why  don't  you  take  my  advice  ?  "  returns  Mr.  Bucket 
in  an  impressive,  almost  in  an  imploring  tone.  "  I'm  sur- 
prised at  the  indiscreetness  you  commit.   You'll  say  something 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


329 


that'll  be  used  against  you,  you  know.  You're  sure  to  come 
to  it.  Never  you  mind  what  I  say,  till  it's  given  in  evidence. 
It's  not  addressed  to  you." 

"  Discharge,  too!"  cries  Mademoiselle,  furiously,  "by  her 
Ladyship !  Eh,  my  faith,  a  pretty  Ladyship !  Why,  I 
r-r-r-ruin  my  character  by  remaining  with  a  Ladyship  so 
infame  !  " 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  wonder  at  you  J  "  Mr.  Bucket  remon- 
strates. "  I  thought  the  French  were  a  polite  nation,  I  did, 
really.  Yet  to  hear  a  female  going  on  like  that,  before  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet !  " 

"  He  is  a  poor  abused  !  "  cries  Mademoiselle.  "  I  spit  upon 
his  house,  upon  his  name,  upon  his  imbecility,"  all  of  which 
she  makes  the  carpet  represent.  "Oh,  that  he  is  a  great 
man  !    0  yes,  superb  !    0  heaven  !    Bah  ! " 

"Well,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,"  proceeds  Mr.  Bucket,  "this 
intemperate  foreigner  also  angrily  took  it  into  her  head  that 
she  had  established  a  claim  upon  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  deceased, 
by  attending  on  the  occasion  I  told  you  of,  at  his  chambers; 
though  she  was  liberally  paid  for  her  time  and  trouble." 

"Lie!"  cries  Mademoiselle.  "I  ref-use  his  money  alto- 
gezzer." 

("  If  you  will  Parlay,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  paren- 
thetically, "  you  must  take  the  consequences.)  Now,  whether 
she  became  my  lodger,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  with  any  delib- 
erate intention  then  of  doing  this  deed  and  blinding  me,  I 
give  no  opinion  on  ;  but  she  lived  in  my  house,  in  that  ca- 
pacity, at  the  time  that  she  was  hovering  about  the  chambers 
of  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  with  a  view  to  a  wrangle,  and 
likewise  persecuting  and  half  frightening  the  life  out  of  an 
unfortunate  stationer." 

"  Lie  !  "  cries  Mademoiselle.    "  All  lie  !  " 

"The  murder  was  committed,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet, 
and  you  know  under  what  circumstances.  Now,  I  beg  of  you 
to  follow  me  close  with  your  attention  for  a  minute  or  two.  I 
was  sent  for,  and  the  case  was  intrusted  to  me.  I  examined 
the  place,  and  the  body,  and  the  papers,  and  everything. 
From  information  I  received  (from  a  clerk  in  the  same  house) 
I  took  George  into  custody,  as  having  been  seen  hanging  about 


330 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


there,  on  the  night,  and  at  very  nigh  the  time,  of  the  murder ; 
also,  as  having  been  overheard  in  high  words  with  the  deceased 
on  former  occasions  —  even  threatening  him,  as  the  witness 
made  out.  If  you  ask  me,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  whether 
from  the  first  I  believed  George  to  be  the  murderer,  I  tell  you 
candidly  No  ;  but  he  might  be,  notwithstanding ;  and  there 
was  enough  against  him  to  make  it  my  duty  to  take  him,  and 
get  him  kept  under  remand.    Now,  observe  !  " 

As  Mr.  Bucket  bends  forward  in  some  excitement  —  for  him 
—  and  inaugurates  what  he  is  going  to  say  with  one  ghostly 
beat  of  his  forefinger  in  the  air,  Mademoiselle  Hortense  fixes 
her  black  eyes  upon  him  with  a  dark  frown,  and  sets  her  dry 
lips  closely  and  firmly  together. 

"I  went  home,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  at  night,  and 
found  this  young  woman  having  supper  with  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Bucket.  She  had  made  a  mighty  show  of  being  fond  of  Mrs. 
Bucket  from  her  first  offering  herself  as  our  lodger,  but  that 
night  she  made  more  than  ever  —  in  fact  overdid  it.  Likewise 
she  overdid  her  respect,  and  all  that,  for  the  lamented  memory 
of  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  By  the  living  Lord  it 
flashed  upon  me,  as  I  sat  opposite  to  her  at  the  table  and  saw 
her  with  a  knife  in  her  hand,  that  she  had  done  it ! " 

Mademoiselle  is  hardly  audible,  in  straining  through  her 
teeth  and  lips  the  words,  "  You  are  a  Devil." 

"Now  where,"  pursues  Mr.  Bucket,  "had  she  been  on  the 
night  of  the  murder?  She  had  been  to  the  theayter.  (She 
really  was  there,  I  have  since  found,  both  before  the  deed  and 
after  it.)  I  knew  T  had  an  artful  customer  to  deal  with,  and 
that  proof  would  be  very  difficult ;  and  I  laid  a  trap  for  her  — 
such  a  trap  as  I  never  laid  yet,  and  such  a  ventur  as  I  never 
made  yet.  I  worked  it  out  in  my  mind  while  I  was  talking 
to  her  at  supper.  When  I  went  up-stairs  to  bed,  our  house 
being  small  and  this  young  woman's  ears  sharp,  I  stuffed  the 
sheet  into  Mrs.  Bucket's  mouth  that  she  shouldn't  say  a 
word  of  surprise,  and  told  her  all  about  it.  —  My  dear,  don't 
you  give  your  mind  to  that  again,  or  I  shall  link  your  feet 
together  at  the  ankles."  Mr.  Bucket,  breaking  off,  has  made 
a  noiseless  descent  upon  Mademoiselle,  and  laid  his  heavy 
hand  upon  her  shoulder. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


331 


"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  now  ?  "  she  asks  him. 

"Don't  you  think  any  more/7  returns  Mr.  Bucket,  with 
admonitory  finger,  "of  throwing  yourself  out  of  window. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  me.  Come  !  Just  take  my 
arm.  You  needn't  get  up ;  I'll  sit  down  by  you.  Now,  take 
my  arm,  will  you.  Fm  a  married  man,  you  know ;  you're 
acquainted  with  my  wife.    Just  take  my  arm." 

Vainly  endeavoring  to  moisten  those  dry  lips,  with  a  pain- 
ful sound,  she  struggles  with  herself  and  complies. 

"Now  we're  all  right  again.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  this  case  could  never  have  been  the  case  it  is,  but  for 
Mrs.  Bucket,  who  is  a  woman  in  fifty  thousand  —  in  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand !  To  throw  this  young  woman  off  her 
guard,  I  have  never  set  foot  in  our  house  since ;  though  I've 
communicated  with  Mrs.  Bucket,  in  the  baker's  loaves  and  in 
the  milk,  as  often  as  required.  My  whispered  words  to  Mrs. 
Bucket,  when  she  had  the  sheet  in  her  mouth  were,  '  My  dear, 
can  you  throw  her  off  continually  with  natural  accounts  of  my 
suspicions  against  George,  and  this,  and  that,  and  t'other  ? 
Can  you  do  without  rest,  and  keep  watch  upon  her  night  and 
day  ?  Can  you  undertake  to  say,  She  shall  do  nothing  with- 
out my  knowledge,  she  shall  be  my  prisoner  without  suspecting 
it,  she  shall  no  more  escape  from  me  than  from  death,  and  her 
life  shall  be  my  life,  and  her  soul  my  soul,  till  I  have  got  her, 
if  she  did  this  murder  ?  '  Mrs.  Bucket  says  to  me,  as  well 
as  she  could  speak,  on  account  of  the  sheet,  6  Bucket,  I  can ! ' 
And  she  has  acted  up  to  it  glorious  !  " 

"  Lies  ! "  Mademoiselle  interposes.    "  All  lies,  my  friend  !  " 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  how  did  my  calculations 
come  out  under  these  circumstances  ?  When  I  calculated  that 
this  impetuous  young  woman  would  overdo  it  in  new  direc- 
tions, was  I  wrong  or  right  ?  I  was  right,  What  does  she 
try  to  do  ?  Don't  let  it  give  you  a  turn  ?  To  throw  the 
murder  on  her  Ladyship." 

Sir  Leicester  rises  from  his  chair,  and  staggers  down  again. 

"And  she  got  encouragement  in  it  from  hearing  that  I 
was  always  here,  which  was  done  a'  purpose.  Now,  open 
that  pocket-book  of  mine,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  if  I  may  take 
the  liberty  of  throwing  it  towards  you,  and  look  at  the  letters 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


sent  to  me,  each  with  the  two  words,  Lady  Dedlock,  in  it. 
Open  the  one  directed  to  yourself,  which  I  stopped  this  very 
morning,  and  read  the  three  words,  Lady  Dedlock,  Mur- 
deress, in  it.  These  letters  have  been  falling  about  like  a 
shower  of  ladybirds.  What  do  you  say  now  to  Mrs.  Bucket, 
from  her  spy-place,  having  seen  them  all  written  by  this 
young  woman  ?  What  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Bucket  having, 
within  this  half-hour,  secured  the  corresponding  ink  and.  paper, 
fellow  half-sheets  and  what  not  ?  Wrhat  do  you  say  to  Mrs. 
Bucket  having  watched  the  posting  of  'em  every  one  by 
this  young  woman,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet  ? "  Mr. 
Bucket  asks,  triumphant  in  his  admiration  of  his  lady's  genius. 

Two  things  are  especially  observable,  as  Mr.  Bucket  pro- 
ceeds to  a  conclusion.  First,  that  he  seems  imperceptibly  to 
establish  a  dreadful  right  of  property  in  Mademoiselle.  Sec- 
ondly, that  the  very  atmosphere  she  breathes  seems  to  narrow 
and  contract  about  her,  as  if  a  close  net,  or  a  pall,  were  being 
drawn  nearer  and  yet  nearer  around  her  breathless  figure. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  that  her  Ladyship  was  on  the  spot  at 
the  eventful  period,"  says  Mr.  Bucket ;  "  and  my  foreign 
friend  here  saw  her,  I  believe,  from  the  upper  part  of  the 
staircase.  Her  Ladyship  and  George  and  my  foreign  friend 
were  all  pretty  close  on  one  another's  heels.  But  that  don't 
signify  any  more,  so  I'll  not  go  into  it.  I  found  the  wadding 
of  the  pistol  with  which  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  was' 
shot.  It  was  a  bit  of  the  printed  description  of  your  house  at 
Chesney  Wold.  Not  much  in  that,  you'll  say,  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet.  No.  But  when  my  foreign  friend  here  is 
so  thoroughly  off  her  guard  as  to  think  it  a  safe  time  to  tear 
up  the  rest  of  that  leaf,  and  when  Mrs.  Bucket  puts  the  pieces 
together  and  finds  the  wadding  wanting,  it  begins  to  look  like 
Queer  Street." 

"  These  are  very  long  lies,"  Mademoiselle  interposes.  "  You 
prose  great  deal.  Is  it  that  you  have  almost  all  finished,  or 
are  you  speaking  always  ?  " 

"Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,"  proceeds  Mr.  Bucket, 
who  delights  in  a  full  title,  and  does  violence  to  himself  when 
he  dispenses  with  any  fragment  of  it,  "the  last  point  in  the 
case  which  I  am  now  going  to  mention,  shows  the  necessity  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


333 


patience  in  our  business,  and  never  doing  a  thing  in  a  hurry. 
I  watched  this  young  woman  yesterday,  without  her  knowl- 
edge, when  she  was  looking  at  the  funeral,  in  company  with 
my  wife,  who  planned  to  take  her  there ;  and  I  had  so  much 
to  convict  her,  and  I  saw  such  an  expression  in  her  face,  and 
my  mind  so  rose  against  her  malice  towards  her  Ladyship,  and 
the  time  was  altogether  such  a  time  for  bringing  down  what 
you  may  call  retribution  upon  her,  that  if  I  had  been  a  younger 
hand  with  less  experience,  I  should  have  taken  her,  certain. 
Equally,  last  night,  when  her  Ladyship,  as  is  so  universally 
admired  I  am  sure,  come  home,  looking  —  why,  Lord!  a  man 
might  almost  say  like  Venus  rising  from  the  ocean,  it  was  so 
unpleasant  and  inconsistent  to  think  of  her  being  charged 
with  a  murder  of  which  she  was  innocent,  that  I  felt  quite  to 
want  to  put  an  end  to  the  job.  What  should  I  have  lost  ? 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  should  have  lost  the  weapon. 
My  prisoner  here  proposed  to  Mrs.  Bucket,  after  the  departure 
of  the  funeral,  that  they  should  go,  per  buss,  a  little  ways  into 
the  country,  and  take  tea  at  a  very  decent  house  of  enter- 
tainment. Now,  near  that  house  of  entertainment  there's  a 
piece  of  water.  At  tea,  my  prisoner  got  up  to  fetch  her 
pocket-handkercher  from  the  bedroom  where  the  bonnets  was ; 
she  was  rather  a  long  time  gone,  and  came  back  a  little  out 
of  wind.  As  soon  as  they  came  home  this  was  reported  to 
me  by  Mrs.  Bucket,  along  with  her  observations  and  suspi- 
cions. I  had  the  piece  of  water  dragged  by  moonlight,  in 
presence  of  a  couple  of  our  men,  and  the  pocket-pistol  was 
brought  up  before  it  had  been  there  half  a  dozen  hours.  Now, 
;my  dear,  put  your  arm  a  little  further  through  mine,  and  hold 
it  steady,  and  I  sha'n't  hurt  you  !  " 

In  a  trice  Mr.  Bucket  snaps  the  handcuff  on  her  wrist. 
["That's  one,"  says  Mr.  Bucket.  "Now  the  other,  darling. 
[  Two,  and  all  told  !  " 

He  rises ;  she  rises  too.  Where,"  she  asks  him,  darken- 
ing her  large  eyes  until  their  drooping  lids  almost  conceal 
them  —  and  yet  they  stare,  "  where  is  your  false,  your  treach- 
erous and  cursed  wife  ?  " 

"She's  gone  forrard  to  the  Police  Office,"  returns  Mr. 
Bucket.    "  You'll  see  her  there,  my  dear." 


334 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"I  would  like  to  kiss  her  ! "  exclaims  Mademoiselle  Hortense, 
panting  tigress-like. 

"  You'd  bite  her,  I  suspect/'  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  I  would  !  "  making  her  eyes  very  large.  "  I  would  love 
to  tear  her,  limb  from  limb." 

"  Bless  you,  darling/'  says  Mr.  Bucket,  with  the  greatest 
composure ;  "  I'm  fully  prepared  to  hear  that.  Your  sex 
have  such  a  surprising  animosity  against  one  another,  when 
you  do  differ.  You  don't  mind  me  half  so  much,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  No.    Though  you  are  a  Devil  still." 

"Angel  and  devil  by  turns,  eh  ?  "  cries  Mr.  Bucket.  "  But 
I  am  in  my  regular  employment,  you  must  consider.  Let  me 
put  your  shawl  tidy.  I've  been  lady's  maid  to  a  good  many 
before  now.  Anything  wanting  to  the  bonnet  ?  There's  a  cab 
at  the  door." 

Mademoiselle  Hortense,  casting  an  indignant  eye  at  the 
glass,  shakes  herself  perfectly  neat  in  one  shake,  and  looks, 
to  do  her  justice,  uncommonly  genteel. 

"  Listen  then,  my  angel,"  says  she,  after  several  sarcastic 
nods.  "You  are  very  spiritual.  But  can  you  restore  him 
back  to  life?" 

Mr.  Bucket  answers,  "  Not  exactly." 

"That  is  droll.  Listen  yet  one  time.  You  are  very 
spiritual.    Can  you  make  a  honorable  lady  of  Her  ? 

"  Don't  be  so  malicious,"  says  Mr.  Bucket. 

"  Or  a  haughty  gentleman  of  Him  ?  "  cries  Mademoiselle,  \ 
referring  to  Sir  Leicester  with  ineffable  disdain.    "Eh!  0 
then  regard  him  !    The  poor  infant !    Ha !  ha  !  ha !  " 

"  Come,  come,  why  this  is  worse  Parlaying  than  the  other," 
says  Mr.  Bucket.    "  Come  along  !  " 

"  You  cannot  do  these  things  ?    Then  you  can  do  as  you 
please  with  me.    It  is  but  the  death,  it  is  all  the  same.  Let 
us  go,  my  angel.    Adieu  you  old  man,  gray.    I  pity  you,  and  , 
I  des-pise  you  !  " 

With  these  last  words,  she  snaps  her  teeth  together,  as  if  j 
her  mouth  closed  with  a  spring.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  j 
how  Mr.  Bucket  gets  her  out,  but  he  accomplishes  that  feat  j 
in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself ;  enfolding  and  pervading  her  j 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


335 


like  a  cloud,  and  hovering  away  with  her  as  if  he  were  a 
homely  Jupiter,  and  she  the  object  of  his  affections. 

Sir  Leicester,  left  alone,  remains  in  the  same  attitude  as 
though  he  were  still  listening,  and  his  attention  were  still 
occupied.  At  length  he  gazes  round  the  empty  room, 
and  finding  it  deserted,  rises  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  pushes 
back  his  chair,  and  walks  a  few  steps,  supporting  himself 
by  the  table.  Then  he  stops ;  and,  with  more  of  those 
inarticulate  sounds,  lifts  up  his  eyes  and  seems  to  stare  at 
something. 

Heaven  knows  what  he  sees.  The  green,  green  woods  of 
Chesney  Wold,  the  noble  house,  the  pictures  of  his  fore- 
fathers, strangers  defacing  them,  officers  of  police  coarsely 
handling  his  most  precious  heirlooms,  thousands  of  fingers 
pointing  at  him,  thousands  of  faces  sneering  at  him.  But  if 
such  shadows  flit  before  him  to  his  bewilderment,  there  is 
one  other  shadow  which  he  can  name  with  something  like 
distinctness  even  yet,  and  to  which  alone  he  addresses  his 
tearing  of  his  white  hair,  and  his  extended  arms. 

It  is  she,  in  association  with  whom,  saving  that  she  has 
been  for  years  a  main  fibre  of  the  root  of  his  dignity  and 
pride,  he  has  never  had  a  selfish  thought.  It  is  she  whom 
he  has  loved,  admired,  honored,  and  set  up  for  the  world  to 
respect.  It  is  she,  who,  at  the  core  of  all  the  constrained 
formalities  and  conventionalities  of  his  life,  has  been  a  stock 
of  living  tenderness  and  love,  susceptible  as  nothing  else  is  of 
being  struck  with  the  agony  he  feels.  He  sees  her,  almost  to 
the  exclusion  of  himself ;  and  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  her 
cast  down  from  the  high  place  she  has  graced  so  well. 

And,  even  to  the  point  of  his  sinking  on  the  ground, 
oblivious  of  his  suffering,  he  can  yet  pronounce  her  name  with 
something  like  distinctness  in  the  midst  of  those  intrusive 
sounds,  and  in  a  tone  of  mourning  and  compassion  rather 
than  reproach. 


336 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FLIGHT. 

Inspector  Bucket  of  the  Detective  has  not  yet  struck  his 
great  blow,  as  just  now  chronicled,  but  is  yet  refreshing 
himself  with  sleep  preparatory  to  his  field-day,  when,  through 
the  night  and  along  the  freezing  wintry  roads,  a  chaise  and 
pair  comes  out  of  Lincolnshire,  making  its  way  towards 
London. 

Eailroads  shall  soon  traverse  all  this  country,  and  with  a 
rattle  and  a  glare  the  engine  and  train  shall  shoot  like  a 
meteor  over  the  wide  night-landscape,  turning  the  moon 
paler;  but,  as  yet,  such  things  are  non-existent  in  these 
parts,  though  not  wholly  unexpected.  Preparations  are  afoot, 
measurements  are  made,  ground  is  staked  out.  Bridges  are 
begun,  and  their  not  yet  united  piers  desolately  look  at  one 
another  over  roads  and  streams,  like  brick  and  mortar  couples 
with  an  obstacle  in  their  union ;  fragments  of  embankments 
are  thrown  up,  and  left  as  precipices  with  torrents  of  rusty 
carts  and  barrows  tumbling  over  them ;  tripods  of  tall  poles 
appear  on  hill-tops,  where  there  are  rumors  of  tunnels ; 
everything  looks  chaotic,  and  abandoned  in  fell  hopelessness. 
Along  the  freezing  roads,  and  through  the  night,  the  post- 
chaise  makes  its  way  without  a  railroad  on  its  mind. 

Mrs.  Pouncewell,  so  many  years  housekeeper  at  Chesney 
Wold,  sits  within  the  chaise ;  and  by  her  side  sits  Mrs. 
Bagnet  with  her  gray  cloak  and  umbrella.  The  old  girl 
would  prefer  the  bar  in  front,  as  being  exposed  to  the 
weather,  and  a  primitive  sort  of  perch  more  in  accordance 
with  her  usual  course  of  travelling;  but  Mrs.  Rouncewell  is 
too  thoughtful  of  her  comfort  to  admit  of  her  proposing  it. 
The  old  lady  cannot  make  enough  of  the  old  girl.  She  sits, 
in  her  stately  manner,  holding  her  hand,  and,  regardless  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


337 


its  roughness,  puts  it  often  to  her  lips.  "  You  are  a  mother, 
my  dear  soul,"  says  she  many  times,  "and  you  found  out  my 
George's  mother !  " 

"Why,  George,"  returns  Mrs,  Bagnet,  "was  always  free 
with  me,  ma'am,  and  when  he  said  at  our  house  to  my 
Woolwich,  that  of  all  the  things  my  Woolwich  could  have  to 
think  of  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man,  the  comfortablest  would 
be  that  he  had  never  brought  a  sorrowful  line  into  his 
mother's  face,  or  turned  a  hair  of  her  head  gray,  then  I  felt 
sure,  from  his  way,  that  something  fresh  had  brought  his 
own  mother  into  his  mind.  I  had  often  known  him  say  to 
me,  in  past  times,  that  he  had  behaved  bad  to  her." 

"Never,  my  dear!"  returns  Mrs.  Bounce  well,  bursting 
into  tears.  "My  blessing  on  him,  never!  He  was  always 
fond  of  me,  and  loving  to  me,  was  my  George  !  But  he  had 
a  bold  spirit,  and  he  ran  a  little  wild,  and  went  for  a  soldier. 
And  I  know  he  waited  at  first,  in  letting  us  know  about  him- 
self, till  he  should  rise  to  be  an  officer ;  and  when  he  didn't 
rise,  I  know  he  considered  himself  beneath  us,  and  wouldn't 
be  a  disgrace  to  us.  For  he  had  a  lion  heart,  had  my  George, 
always  from  a  baby  ! " 

The  old  lady's  hands  stray  about  her  as  of  yore,  while  she 
recalls,  all  in  a  tremble,  what  a  likely  lad,  what  a  fine  lad, 
what  a  gay  good-humored  clever  lad  he  was ;  how  they  all 
took  to  him,  down  at  Chesney  Wold ;  how  Sir  Leicester  took 
to  him  when  he  was  a  young  gentleman  ;  how  the  dogs  took 
to  him ;  how  even  the  people,  who  had  been  angry  with  him, 
forgave  him  the  moment  he  was  gone,  poor  boy.  And  now 
to  see  him  after  all,  and  in  a  prison  too !  And  the  broad 
stomacher  heaves,  and  the  quaint  upright  old-fashioned  figure 
bends  under  its  load  of  affectionate  distress. 

Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  the  instinctive  skill  of  a  good  warm 
heart,  leaves  the  old  housekeeper  to  her  emotions  for  a  little 
while  —  not  without  passing  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her 
own  motherly  eyes  —  and  presently  chirps  up  in  her  cheery 
manner,  — 

"So  I  says  to  George  when  I  goes  to  call  him  in  to  tea 
(he  pretended  to  be  smoking  his  pipe  outside),  6  What  ails 
you  this  afternoon,  George,  for  gracious  sake  ?    I  have  seen 

VOL.  II. 


338  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

all  sorts,  and  I  have  seen  you  pretty  often  in  season  and  out 
of  season,  abroad  and  at  home,  and  I  never  see  you  so 
melancholly  penitent.'  — '  Why,  Mrs.  Bagnet,'  says  George, 
'it's  because  I  am  melancholly  and  penitent  both,  this  after- 
noon, that  you  see  me  so.7  — '  What  have  you  done,  old 
fellow?'  I  says.  'Why,  Mrs.  Bagnet,'  says  George,  shaking 
his  head,  '  what  I  have  done  has  been  done  this  many  a  long- 
year,  and  is  best  not  tried  to  be  undone  now.  If  I  ever  get 
to  Heaven,  it  won't  be  for  being  a  good  son  to  a  widowed 
mother ;  I  say  no  more.'  Now,  ma'am,  when  George  says  to 
me  that  it's  best  not  tried  to  be  undone  now,  I  have  my 
thoughts  as  I  have  often  had  before,  and  I  draw  it  out  of 
George  how  he  comes  to  have  such  things  on  him  that  after- 
noon. Then  George  tells  me  that  he  has  seen  'by  chance,  at 
the  lawyer's  office,  a  fine  old  lady  that  has  brought  his 
mother  plain  before  him  ;  and  he  runs  on  about  that  old  lady 
till  he  quite  forgets  himself,  and  paints  her  picture  to  me  as 
she  used  to  be,  years  upon  years  back.  So  I  says  to  George 
when  he  has  done,  who  is  this  old  lady  he  has  seen  ?  And 
George  tells  me  it's  Mrs.  Eouncewell,  housekeeper  for  more 
than  half  a  century  to  the  Dedlock  family  down  at  Chesney 
Wold  in  Lincolnshire.  George  has  frequently  told  me  before 
that  he's  a  Lincolnshire  man,  and  I  says  to  my  old  Lignum 
that  night,  'Lignum,  that's  his  mother  for  five  and  forty 
pound ! ' " 

All  this  Mrs.  Bagnet  now  relates  for  the  twentieth  time  at 
least  within  the  last  four  hours.  Trilling  it  out,  like  a  kind 
of  bird ;  with  a  pretty  high  note,  that  it  may  be  audible  to 
the  old  lady  above  the  hum  of  the  wheels. 

"Bless  you,  and  thank  you,"  says  Mrs.  Eouncewell.  "Bless 
you,  and  thank  you,  my  worthy  soul ! " 

"  Dear  heart ! "  cries  Mrs.  Bagnet,  in  the  most  natural 
manner.  "No  thanks  to  me,  I  am  sure.  Thanks  to  yourself, 
ma'am,  for  being  so  ready  to  pay  'em  !  And  mind  once  more, 
ma'am,  what  you  had  best  do  on  finding  George  to  be  your 
own  son,  is,  to  make  him  —  for  your  sake  —  have  every  sort 
of  help  to  put  himself  in  the  right,  and  clear  himself  of  a 
charge  of  which  he  is  as  innocent  as  you  Or  me.  It  won't  do 
to  have  truth  and  justice  on  his  side ;  he  must  have  law  and 


I 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERCITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


339 


lawyers/'  exclaims  the  old  girl,  apparently  persuaded  that  the 
latter  form  a  separate  establishment,  and  have  dissolved  part- 
nership with  truth  and  justice  forever  and  a  day. 

'•'He  shall  have/'  says  Mrs.  Rouncewell,  "all  the  help  that 
can  be  got  for  him  in  the  world,  my  dear.  I  will  spend  all 
I  have,  and  thankfully,  to  procure  it.  Sir  Leicester  will  do 
his  best,  the  whole  family  will  do  their  best.  I  —  I  know 
something,  my  dear;  and  will  make  my  own  appeal,  as  his 
mother  parted  from  him  all  these  years,  and  finding  him  in  a 
jail  at  last." 

The  extreme  disquietude  of  the  old  housekeeper's  manner 
in  saying  this,  her  broken  words,  and  her  wringing  of  her 
hands,  make  a  powerful  impression  on  Mrs.  Bagnet,  and 
would  astonish  her  but  that  she  refers  them  all  to  her  sorrow 
for  her  son's  condition.  And  yet  Mrs.  Bagnet  wonders,  too, 
why  Mrs.  Rouncewell  should  murmur  so  distractedly,  "My 
Lady,  my  Lady,  my  Lady  ! "  over  and  over  again. 

The  frosty  night  wears  away,  and  the  dawn  breaks,  and 
the  post-chaise  comes  rolling  on  through  the  early  mist,  like 
the  ghost  of  a  chaise  departed.  It  has  plenty  of  spectral 
company,  in  ghosts  of  trees  and  hedges,  slowly  vanishing  and 
giving  place  to  the  realities  of  day.  London  reached,  the 
travellers  alight ;  the  old  housekeeper  in  great  tribulation  and 
confusion;  Mrs.  Bagnet,  quite  fresh  and  collected  —  as  she 
would  be,  if  her  next  point,  with  no  new  equipage  and  outfit, 
were  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  Island  of  Ascension,  Hong 
Kong,  or  any  other  military  station.  . 

But  when  they  set  out  for  the  prison  where  the  trooper  is 
confined,  the  old  lady  has  managed  to  draw  about  her,  with 
her  lavender-colored  dress,  much  of  the  staid  calmness  which 
is  its  usual  accompaniment.  A  wonderfully  grave,  precise, 
and  handsome  piece  of  old  china  she  looks ;  though  her  heart 
beats  fast,  and  her  stomacher  is  ruffled  more  than  even  the 
remembrance  of  this  wayward  son  has  ruffled  it  these  many 
years. 

Approaching  the  cell,  they  find  the  door  opening  and  a 
warder  in  the  act  of  coming  out.  The  old  girl  promptly 
makes  a  sign  of  entreaty  to  him  to  say  nothing ;  assenting, 
with  a  nod,  he  suffers  them  to  enter  as  he  shuts  the  door. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


So  George,  who  is  writing  at  his  table,  supposing  himself 
to  be  alone,  does  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  remains  absorbed. 
The  old  housekeeper  looks  at  him,  and  those  wandering  hands 
of  hers  are  quite  enough  for  Mrs.  Bagnet's  confirmation ;  even 
if  she  could  see  the  mother  and  the  son  together,  knowing 
what  she  knows,  and  doubt  their  relationship. 

Not  a  rustle  of  the  housekeeper's  dress,  not  a  gesture,  not  a 
word  betrays  her.  She  stands  looking  at  him  as  he  writes  on, 
all  unconscious,  and  only  her  fluttering  hands  give  utterance 
to  her  emotions.  But  they  are  very  eloquent;  very,  very 
eloquent.  Mrs.  Bagnet  understands  them.  They  speak  of 
gratitude,  of  joy,  of  grief,  of  hope ;  of  inextinguishable  affec- 
tion, cherished  with  no  return  since  this  stalwart  man  was  a 
stripling;  of  a  better  son  loved  less,  and  this  son  loved  so 
fondly  and  so  proudly ;  and  they  speak  in  such  touching  lan- 
guage, that  Mrs.  Bagnet's  eyes  brim  up  with  tears,  and  they 
run  glistening  down  her  sun-brown  face. 

"  George  Eouncewell !  0  my  dear  child,  turn  and  look  at 
me!" 

The  trooper  starts  up,  clasps  his  mother  round  the  neck, 
and  falls  down  on  his  knees  before  her.  Whether  in  a  late 
repentance,  whether  in  the  first  association  that  comes  back 
upon  him,  he  puts  his  hands  together  as  a  child  does  when  it 
says  its  prayers,  and  raising  them  towards  her  breast,  bows 
down  his  head,  and  cries. 

"  My  George,  my  dearest  son !  Always  my  favorite,  and 
my  favorite  still,  where  have  you  been  these  cruel  years  and 
years  ?  Grown  such  a  man,  too,  grown  such  a  fine  strong 
man.  Grown  so  like  what  I  knew  he  must  be,  if  it  pleased 
God  he  was  alive  ! " 

She  can  ask,  and  he  can  answer,  nothing  connected  for  a 
time.  All  that  time  the  old  girl,  turned  away,  leans  one  arm 
against  the  whitened  wall,  leans  her  honest  forehead  upon  it, 
wipes  her  eyes  with  her  serviceable  gray  cloak,  and  quite 
enjoys  herself  like  the  best  of  old  girls  as  she  is. 

"  Mother,"  says  the  trooper,  when  they  are  more  composed ; 
"forgive  me  first  of  all,  for  I  know  my  need  of  it." 

Forgive  him  !  She  does  it  with  all  her  heart  and  soul. 
She  always  has  done  it.    She  tells  him  how  she  has  had  it 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


341 


written  in  her  will,  these  many  years,  that  he  was  her  beloved 
son  George.  She  has  never  believed  any  ill  of  him,  never. 
If  she  had  died  without  this  happiness  —  and  she  is  an  old 
woman  now,  and  can't  look  to  live  very  long  —  she  would 
have  blessed  him  with  her  last  breath,  if  she  had  had  her 
senses,  as  her  beloved  son  George. 

"  Mother,  I  have  been  an  undutiful  trouble  to  you,  and  I 
have  my  reward ;  but  of  late  years  I  have  had  a  kind  of 
glimmering  of  a  purpose  in  me,  too.  When  I  left  home  I 
didn't  care  much,  mother  —  I  am  afraid  not  a  great  deal  — for 
leaving;  and  went  away  and  'listed,  harum-scarum,  making 
believe  to  think  that  I  cared  for  nobody,  no,  not  I,  and  that 
nobody  cared  for  me." 

The  trooper  has  dried  his  eyes,  and  put  away  his  handker- 
chief: but  there  is  an  extraordinary  contrast  between  his 
habitual  manner  of  expressing  himself  and  carrying  himself, 
and  the  softened  tone  in  which  he  speaks,  interrupted  occa- 
sionally by  a  half-stifled  sob. 

"  So  I  wrote  a  line  home,  mother,  as  you  too  well  know,  to 
say  I  had  'listed  under  another  name,  and  I  went  abroad. 
Abroad,  at  one  time  I  thought  I  would  write  home  next  year, 
when  I  might  be  better  off ;  and  when  that  year  was  out,  I 
thought  I  would  write  home  next  year,  when  I  might  be  better 
off ;  and  when  that  year  was  out  again,  perhaps  I  didn't  think 
much  about  it.  So  on,  from  year  to  year,  through  a  service 
of  ten  years,  till  I  began  to  get  older,  and  to  ask  myself  why 
should  I  ever  write  ?  " 

"I  don't  find  any  fault,  child  —  but  not  to  ease  my  mind, 
George  ?  Not  a  word  to  your  loving  mother,  who  was  growing 
older,  too  ?  " 

This  almost  overturns  the  trooper  afresh ;  but  he  sets  him- 
self up  with  a  great,  rough,  sounding  clearance  of  his  throat. 

"  Heaven  forgive  me,  mother,  but  I  thought  there  would  be 
small  consolation  then  in  hearing  anything  about  me.  There 
were  you,  respected  and  esteemed.  There  was  my  brother,  as 
I  read  in  chance  north-country  papers  now  and  then,  rising  to 
be  prosperous  and  famous.  There  was  I  a  dragoon,  roving, 
unsettled,  not  self-made  like  him,  but  self-unmade  —  all  my 
earlier  advantages  thrown  away,  all  my  little  learning  unlearnt, 


342 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


nothing  picked  up  but  what  unfitted  me  for  most  things  that 
I  could  think  of.  What  business  had  /  to  make  myself 
known  ?  After  letting  all  that  time  go  by  me,  what  good 
could  come  of  it  ?  The  worst  was  past  with  you,  mother.  I 
knew  by  that  time  (being  a  man)  how  you  had  mourned  for 
me,  and  wept  for  me,  and  prayed  for  me ;  and  the  pain  was 
over,  or  was  softened  down,  and  I  was  better  in  your  mind  as 
it  was." 

The  old  lady  sorrowfully  shakes  her  head ;  and  taking  one 
of  his  powerful  hands,  lays  it  lovingly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  No,  I  don't  say  that  it  was  so,  mother,  but  that  I  made  it 
out  to  be  so.  I  said  just  now  what  good  could  come  of  it  ? 
Well,  my  dear  mother,  some  good  might  have  come  of  it  to 
myself  —  and  there  was  the  meanness  of  it.  You  would  have 
sought  me  out ;  you  would  have  purchased  my  discharge ;  you 
would  have  taken  me  down  to  Chesney  Wold;  you  would 
have  brought  me  and  my  brother  and  my  brother's  family 
together ;  you  would  all  have  considered  anxiously  how  to  do 
something  for  me,  and  set  me  up  as  a  respectable  civilian. 
But  how  could  any  of  you  feel  sure  of  me,  when  I  couldn't  so 
much  as  feel  sure  of  myself  ?  How  could  you  help  regarding 
as  an  encumbrance  and  a  discredit  to  you,  an  idle  dragooning 
chap,  who  was  an  encumbrance  and  a  discredit  to  himself, 
excepting  under  discipline  ?  How  could  I  look  my  brother's 
children  in  the  face,  and  pretend  to  set  them  an  example  —  I, 
the  vagabond  boy,  who  had  run  away  from  home,  and  been  the 
grief  and  unhappiness  of  my  mother's  life?  'No,  George.' 
Such  were  my  words,  mother,  when  I  passed  this  in  review 
before  me  :  6  You  have  made  your  bed.    Now,  lie  upon  it.' " 

Mrs.  Rouncewell,  drawing  up  her  stately  form,  shakes  her 
head  at  the  old  girl  with  a  swelling  pride  upon  her,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  I  told  you  so  !  "  The  old  girl  relieves  her  feelings, 
and  testifies  her  interest  in  the  conversation,  by  giving  the 
trooper  a  great  poke  between  the  shoulders  with  her  umbrella; 
this  action  she  afterwards  repeats,  at  intervals,  in  a  species  of 
affectionate  lunacy  :  never  failing,  after  the  administration  of 
each  of  these  remonstrances,  to  resort  to  the  whitened  wall 
and  the  gray  cloak  again. 

"  This  was  the  way  I  brought  myself  to  think,  mother, 

1 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


343 


that  my  best  amends  was  to  lie  upon  that  bed  I  had  made,  and 
die  upon  it.  And  I  should  have  done  it  (though  I  have  been 
to  see  you  more  than  once  down  at  Chesney  Wold,  when  you 
little  thought  of  me),  but  for  my  old  comrade's  wife  here,  who 
I  find  has  been  too  many  for  me.  But  I  thank  her  for  it.  I 
thank  you  for  it,  Mrs.  Bagnet,  with  all  my  heart  and  might." 

To  which  Mrs.  Bagnet  responds  with  two  pokes. 

And  now  the  old  lady  impresses  upon  her  son  George,  her 
own  dear  recovered  boy,  her  joy  and  pride,  the  light  of  her 
eyes,  the  happy  close  of  her  life,  and  every  fond  name  she  can 
think  of,  that  he  must  be  governed  by  the  best  advice  obtain- 
able by  money  and  influence  ;  that  he  must  yield  up  his  case 
to  the  greatest  lawyers  that  can  be  got ;  that  he  must  act,  in 
this  serious  plight,  as  he  shall  be  advised  to  act ;  and  must 
not  be  self-willed,  however  right,  but  must  promise  to  think 
only  of  his  poor  old  mother's  anxiety  and  suffering  until  he  is 
released,  or  he  will  break  her  heart. 

"Mother,  'tis  little  enough  to  consent  to,"  returns  the 
trooper,  stopping  her  with  a  kiss  ;  "  tell  me  what  I  shall  do, 
and  I'll  make  a  late  beginning,  and  do  it.  Mrs.  Bagnet,  you'll 
take  care  of  my  mother,  I  know  ?  " 

A  very  hard  poke  from  the  old  girl's  umbrella. 

"  If  you'll  bring  her  acquainted  with  Mr.  Jarndyce  and  Miss 
Summerson,  she  will  find  them  of  her  way  of  thinking,  and 
they  will  give  her  the  best  advice  and  assistance." 

"  And,  George,"  says  the  old  lady,  "  we  must  send  with  all 
haste  for  your  brother.  He  is  a  sensible  sound  man  as  they 
tell  me  —  out  in  the  world  beyond  Chesney  Wold,  my  dear, 
though  I  don't  know  much  of  it  myself  —  and  will  be  of  great 
service  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  returns  the  trooper,  "  is  it  too  soon  to  ask  a 
favor  ? " 

"  Surely  not,  my  dear." 

"  Then  grant  me  this  one  great  favor.  Don't  let  my  brother 
know." 

\      "  Not  know  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Not  know  of  me.  In  fact,  mother,  I  can't  bear  it ;  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  to  it.  He  has  proved  himself  so  different 
from  me,  and  has  done  so  much  to  raise  himself  while  I've 


344 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


been  soldiering,  that  I  haven't  brass  enough  in  my  composition, 
to  see  him  in  this  place  and  under  this  charge.  How  could  a 
man  like  him  be  expected  to  have  any  pleasure  in  such  a  dis- 
covery ?  It's  impossible.  No,  keep  my  secret  from  him, 
motheT;  do  me  a  greater  kindness  than  I  deserve,  and  keep 
my  secret  from  my  brother,  of  all  men." 
"  But  not  always,  dear  George  ?  " 

"Why,  mother,  perhaps  not  for  good  and  all  —  though  I 
may  come  to  ask  that  too  —  but  keep  it  now,  I  do  entreat  you. 
If  it's  ever  broke  to  him  that  his  Rip  of  a  brother  has  turned 
up,  I  could  wish,"  says  the  trooper,  shaking  his  head  very 
doubtfully,  "  to  break  it  myself ;  and  be  governed,  as  to 
advancing  or  retreating,  by  the  way  in  which  he  seems  to 
take  it," 

As  he  evidently  has  a  rooted  feeling  on  this  point,  and  as 
the  depth  of  it  is  recognized  in  Mrs.  Bagnet's  face,  his  mother 
yields  her  implicit  assent  to  what  he  sks.  For  this  he  thanks 
her  kindly. 

"  In  all  other  respects,  my  dear  mother,  I'll  be  as  tractable 
and  obedient  as  you  can  wish ;  on  this  one  alone,  I  stand  out. 
So  now  I  am  ready  even  for  the  lawyers.  I  have  been  draw- 
ing up,'7  he  glances  at  his  writing  on  the  table,  "an  exact 
account  of  what  I  knew  of  the  deceased,  and  how  I  came  to 
be  involved  in  this  unfortunate  affair.  It's  entered,  plain  and 
regular,  like  an  orderly-book;  not  a  word  in  it  but  what's 
wanted  for  the  facts.  I  did  intend  to  read  it,  straight  on  end, 
whensoever  I  was  called  upon  to  say  anything  in  my  defence. 
I  hope  I  may  be  let  to  do  it  still ;  but  I  have  no  longer  a  will 
of  my  own  in  this  case,  and  whatever  is  said  or  done,  I  give 
my  promise  not  to  have  any." 

Matters  being  brought  to  this  so  far  satisfactory  pass,  and 
time  being  on  the  wane,  Mrs.  Bagnet  proposes  a  departure. 
Again  and  again  the  old  lady  hangs  upon  her  son's  neck,  and 
again  and  again  the  trooper  holds  her  to  his  broad  chest. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  take  my  mother,  Mrs.  Bagnet  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  the  town  house,  my  dear,  the  family  house. 
I  have  some  business  there,  that  must  be  looked  to  directly," 
Mrs.  Rouncewell  answers. 

"  Will  you  see  my  mother  safe  there,  in  a  coach,  Mrs. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


345 


Bagnet  ?  But  of  course  I  know  you  will.  Why  should  I 
ask  it!" 

Why  indeed,  Mrs.  Bagnet  expresses  with  the  umbrella. 

"  Take  her,  my  old  friend,  and  take  my  gratitude  along  with 
you.  Kisses  to  Quebec  and  Malta,  love  to  my  godson,  a 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand  to  Lignum,  and  this  for  yourself,  and 
I  wish  it  was  ten  thousand  pound  in  gold,  my  dear  ! "  So 
saying,  the  trooper  puts  his  lips  to  the  old  girl's  tanned  fore- 
head, and  the  door  shuts  upon  him  in  his  cell. 

No  entreaties  on  the  part  of  the  good  old  housekeeper  will 
induce  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  retain  the  coach  for  her  own  convey- 
ance home.  Jumping  out  cheerfully  at  the  door  of  the  Ded- 
lock  mansion,  and  handing  Mrs.  Kouncewell  up  the  steps,  the 
old  girl  shakes  hands  and  trudges  off;  arriving  soon  after- 
wards in  the  bosom  of  the  Bagnet  family,  and  falling  to 
washing  the  greens,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

My  Lady  is  in  that  room  in  which  she  held  her  last  confer- 
ence with  the  murdered  man,  and  is  sitting  where  she  sat  that 
night,  and  is  looking  at  the  spot  where  he  stood  upon  the 
hearth,  studying  her  so  leisurely,  when  a  tap  comes  at  the 
door.  Who  is  it  ?  Mrs.  Kouncewell.  What  has  brought 
Mrs.  Kouncewell  to  town  so  unexpectedly  ? 

"  Trouble,  my  Lady.  Sad  trouble.  0,  my  Lady,  may  I 
beg  a  word  with  you  ?  " 

What  new  occurrence  is  it  that  makes  this  tranquil  old 
woman  tremble  so  ?  Far  happier  than  her  Lady,  as  her  Lady 
has  often  thought,  why  does  she  falter  in  this  manner,  and 
look  at  her  with  such  strange  mistrust  ? 

u  What  is  the  matter  ?    Sit  down  and  take  your  breath." 

"  0,  my  Lady,  my  Lady.  I  have  found  my  son  —  my 
youngest,  who  went  away  for  a  soldier  so  long  ago.  And  he 
is  in  prison. 

"  For  debt  ?  " 

"  0  no,  my  Lady  ;  I  would  have  paid  any  debt,  and  joyful." 
"For  what  is  he  in  prison  then  ? 99 

"  Charged  with  a  murder,  my  Lady,  of  which  he  is  as 
innocent  as  —  as  I  am.  Accused  of  the  murder  of  Mr.  Tulk- 
inghorn." 

What  does  she  mean  by  this  look  and  this  imploring 


346 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


gesture  ?  Why  does  she  come  so  close  ?  What  is  the  letter 
that  she  holds  ? 

"  Lady  Dedlock,  my  dear  Lady,  my  good  Lady,  my  kind 
Lady !  You  must  have  a  heart  to  feel  for  me,  you  must  have 
a  heart  to  forgive  me.  I  was  in  this  family  before  you  were 
born.  I  am  devoted  to  it.  But  think  of  my  dear  son  wrong- 
fully accused." 

"  I  do  not  accuse  him." 

"  No,  my  Lady,  no.  But  others  do,  and  he  is  in  prison  and 
in  danger.  0  Lady  Dedlock,  if  you  can  say  but  a  word  to 
help  to  clear  him,  say  it !  " 

What  delusion  can  this  be  ?  What  power  does  she  suppose 
is  in  the  person  she  petitions,  to  avert  this  unjust  suspicion,  if 
it  be  unjust  ?  Her  Lady's  handsome  eyes  regard  her  with 
astonishment,  almost  with  fear. 

"  My  Lady,  I  came  away  last  night  from  Chesney  Wold  to 
find  my  son  in  my  old  age,  and  the  step  upon  the  Ghost's 
Walk  was  so  constant  and  so  solemn  that  I  never  heard  the 
like  in  all  these  years.  Night  after  night,  as  it  has  fallen 
dark,  the  sound  has  echoed  through  your  rooms,  but  last  night 
it  was  awfullest.  And  as  it  fell  dark  last  night,  my  Lady,  I 
got  this  letter." 

"  What  letter  is  it  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  Hush  ! "  The  housekeeper  looks  round,  and 
answers  in  a  frightened  whisper :  "  My  Lady,  I  have  not 
breathed  a  word  of  it,  I  don't  believe  what's  written  in  it,  I 
know  it  can't  be  true,  I  am  sure  and  certain  that  it  is  not  true. 
But  my  son  is  in  danger,  and  you  must  have  a  heart  to  pity 
me.  If  you  know  of  anything  that  is  not  known  to  others,  if 
you  have  any  suspicion,  if  you  have  any  clew  at  all,  and  any 
reason  for  keeping  it  in  your  own  breast,  0  my  dear  Lady, 
think  of  me,  and  conquer  that  reason,  and  let  it  be  known  ! 
This  is  the  most  I  consider  possible.  I  know  you  are  not  a 
hard  lady,  but  you  go  your  own  way  always,  without  help,  and 
you  are  not  familiar  with  your  friends ;  and  all  who  admire 
you  —  and  all  do  —  as  a  beautiful  and  elegant  lady,  know  you 
to  be  one  far  away  from  themselves,  who  can't  be  approached 
close.  My  Lady,  you  may  have  some  proud  or  angry  reasons 
for  disdaining  to  utter  something  that  you  know  ;  if  so,  pray, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


347 


0  pray,  think  of  a  faithful  servant  whose  whole  life  has  been 
passed  in  this  family  which  she  dearly  loves,  and  relent,  and 
help  to  clear  my  son !  My  Lady,  my  good  Lady,"  the  old 
housekeeper  pleads  with  genuine  simplicity,  "  I  am  so  humble 
in  my  place,  and  you  are  by  nature  so  high  and  distant,  that 
you  may  not  think  what  I  feel  for  my  child ;  but  I  feel  so 
much,  that  I  have  come  here  to  make  so  bold  as  to  beg  and 
pray  you  not  to  be  scornful  of  us,  if  you  can  do  us  any  right 
or  justice  at  this  fearful  time  ! " 

Lady  Dedlock  raises  her  without  one  word,  until  she 
takes  the  letter  from  her  hand. 

"  Am  I  to  read  this  ?  " 

"  When  I  am  gone,  my  Lady,  if  you  please ;  and  then  re- 
membering the  most  that  I  consider  possible." 

"  I  know  of  nothing  I  can  do.  I  know  of  nothing  I  reserve 
that  can  affect  your  son.    I  have  never  accused  him." 

"  My  Lady,  you  may  pity  him  the  more,  under  a  false 
accusation,  after  reading  the  letter." 

The  old  housekeeper  leaves  her  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
In  truth  she  is  not  a  hard  lady  naturally  ;  and  the  time  has 
been  when  the  sight  of  the  venerable  figure  suing  to  her  with 
such  strong  earnestness  would  have  moved  her  to  great  com- 
passion. But,  so  long  accustomed  to  suppress  emotion,  and 
keep  down  reality  ;  so  long  schooled  for  her  own  purposes,  in 
that  destructive  school  which  shuts  up  the  natural  feelings  of 
the  heart,  like  flies  in  amber,  and  spreads  one  uniform  and 
dreary  gloss  over  the  good  and  bad,  the  feeling  and  the 
unfeeling,  the  sensible  and  the  senseless;  she  had  subdued 
even  her  wonder  until  now. 

She  opens  the  letter.  Spread  out  upon  the  paper  is  a  printed 
account  of  the  discovery  of  the  body,  as  it  lay  face  downward 
on  the  floor,  shot  through  the  heart ;  and  underneath  is 
written  her  own  name,  with  the  word  Murderess  attached. 

It  falls  out  of  her  hand.  How  long  it  may  have  lain  upon 
the  ground  she  knows  not ;  but  it  lies  where  it  fell,  when  a 
servant  stands  before  her  announcing  a  young  man  of  the 
name  of  Guppy.  The  words  have  probably  been  repeated 
several  times,  for  they  are  ringing  in  her  head  before  she 
begins  to  understand  them. 


348 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Let  him  come  in  ! " 

He  comes  in.  Holding  the  letter  in  her  hand,  which  she 
has  taken  from  the  floor,  she  tries  to  collect  her  thoughts.  In 
the  eyes  of  Mr.  Guppy  she  is  the  same  Lady  Dedlock,  holding 
the  same  prepared,  proud,  chilling  state. 

"  Your  Ladyship  may  not  be  at  first  disposed  to  excuse  this 
visit  from  one  who  has  never  been  very  welcome  to  your 
Ladyship  —  which  he  don't  complain  of,  for  he  is  bound  to 
confess  that  there  never  has  been  any  particular  reason  on  the 
face  of  things,  why  he  should  be  ;  but  I  hope  when  I  mention 
my  motives  to  your  Ladyship,  you  will  not  find  fault  with 
me/'  says  Mr.  Guppy. 

"  Do  so." 

"  Thank  your  Ladyship.  I  ought  first  to  explain  to  your 
Ladyship,"  Mr.  Guppy  sits  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  puts 
his  hat  on  the  carpet  at  his  feet,  "that  Miss  Summerson, 
whose  image  as  I  formerly  mentioned  to  your  Ladyship  was 
at  one  period  of  my  life  imprinted  on  my  art  until  erased  by 
circumstances  over  which  I  had  no  control,  communicated  to 
me,  after  I  had  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  your  Ladyship  last, 
that  she  particularly  wished  me  to  take  no  steps  whatever  in 
any  matter  at  all  relating  to  her.  And  Miss  Summerson's 
wishes  being  to  me  a  law  (except  as  connected  with  circum- 
stances over  which  I  have  no  control),  I  consequently  never 
expected  to  have  the  distinguished  honor  of  waiting  on  your 
Ladyship  again." 

And  yet  he  is  here  now,  Lady  Dedlock  moodily  reminds  him. 

"  And  yet  I  am  here  now,"  Mr.  Guppy  admits.  "  My 
object  being  to  communicate  to  your  Ladyship,  under  the  seal 
of  confidence,  why  I  am  here." 

He  cannot  do  so,  she  tells  him,  too  plainly  or  too  briefly. 

"Nor  can  I,"  Mr.  Guppy  returns,  with  a  sense  of  injur} 
upon  him,  "too  particularly  request  your  Ladyship  to  tak 
particular  notice  that  it's  no  personal  affair  of  mine  tha 
brings  me  here.  I  have  no  interested  views  of  my  own  t 
serve  in  coming  here.  If  it  was  not  for  my  promise  to  Mis 
Summerson,  and  my  keeping  of  it  sacred,  —  I,  in  point  o 
fact,  shouldn't  have  darkened  these  doors  again,  but  shouh 
seen  'em  further  first," 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  349 

Mr.  Guppy  considers  this  a  favorable  moment  for  sticking 
up  his  hair  with  both  hands. 

"Your  Ladyship  will  remember  when  I  mention  it,  that 
the  last  time  I  was  here,  I  run  against  a  party  very  eminent 
in  our  profession,  and  whose  loss  we  all  deplore.  .  That  party 
certainly  did  from  that  time  apply  himself  to  cutting  in 
against  me  in  a  way  that  I  will  call  sharp  practice,  and  did 
make  it,  at  every  turn  and  point,  extremely  difficult  for  me  to 
be  sure  that  I  hadn't  inadvertently  led  up  to  something 
contrary  to  Miss  Summerson's  wishes.  Self-praise  is  no 
recommendation ;  but  I  may  say  for  myself  that  I  am  not  so 
"bad  a  man  of  business  neither." 

Lady  Dedlock  looks  at  him  in  stern  inquiry.  Mr.  Guppy 
immediately  withdraws  his  eyes  from  her  face,  and  looks 
anywhere  else. 

"  Indeed  it  has  been  made  so  hard,"  he  goes  on,  "  to  have 
any  idea  what  that  party  was  up  to  in  combination  with 
others,  that  until  the  loss  which  we  all  deplore,  I  was 
gravelled  —  an  expression  which  your  Ladyship,  moving  in  the 
higher  circles,  will  be  so  good  as  to  consider  tantamount  to 
knocked  over.  Small  likewise  —  a  name  by  which  I  refer  to 
another  party,  a  friend  of  mine  that  your  Ladyship  is  not 
acquainted  with  —  got  to  be  so  close  and  double-faced  that  at 
times  it  wasn't  easy  to  keep  one's  hands  off  his  ed.  However, 
what  with  the  exertion  of  my  humble  abilities,  and  what  with 
the  help  of  a  mutual  friend  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Tony  Weevle 
(who  is  of  a  high  aristocratic  turn,  and  has  your  Ladyship's 
portrait  always  hanging  up  in  his  room),  I  have  now  reasons 
for  an  apprehension,  as  to  which  I  come  to  put  your  Ladyship 
upon  your  guard.  First,  will  your  Ladyship  allow  me  to  ask 
you  whether  you  have  had  any  strange  visitors  this  morning  ? 
I  don't  mean  fashionable  visitors,  but  such  visitors,  for  instance, 
as  Miss  Barbary's  old  servant,  or  as  a  person  without  the  use 
of  his  lower  extremities,  carried  up-stairs  similarly  to  a  Guy  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  Then  I  assure  your  Ladyship  that  such  visitors  have  been 
here,  and  have  been  received  here.  Because  I  saw  them  at  the 
door,  and  waited  at  the  corner  of  the  square  till  they  came 
out,  and  took  half  an  hour's  turn  afterwards  to  avoid  them." 


350 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  What  have  I  to  do  with  that,  or  what  have  you  ?  I  do 
not  understand  you.    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Your  Ladyship,  I  come  to  put  you  on  your  guard. 
There  may  be  no  occasion  for  it.  Very  well.  Then  I  have 
only  done  my  best  to  keep  my  promise  to  Miss  Summerson. 
I  strongly  suspect  (from  what  Small  has  dropped,  and  from 
what  we  have  corkscrewed  out  of  him)  that  those  letters  I  was 
to  have  brought  to  your  Ladyship  were  not  destroyed  when 
I  supposed  they  were.  That  if  there  was  anything  to  be 
blown  upon,  it  is  blown  upon.  That  the  visitors  I  have 
alluded  to  have  been  here  this  morning  to  make  money  of  it. 
And  that  the  money  is  made  or  making." 

Mr.  Guppy  picks  up  his  hat  and  rises. 

"Your  Ladyship,  you  know  best,  whether  there's  any- 
thing in  what  I  say,  or  whether  there's  nothing.  Some- 
thing or  nothing,  I  have  acted  up  to  Miss  Summerson's  wishes 
in  letting  things  alone,  and  in  undoing  what  I  had  begun  to 
do,  as  far  as  possible ;  that's  sufficient  for  me.  In  case  I 
should  be  taking  a  liberty  in  putting  your  Ladyship  on  your 
guard  when  there's  no  necessity  for  it,  you  will  endeavor 
I  should  hope,  to  outlive  my  presumption,  and  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  outlive  your  disapprobation.  I  now  take  my  fare- 
well of  your  Ladyship,  and  assure  you  that  there's  no  danger 
of  your  ever  being  waited  on  by  me  again." 

She  scarcely  acknowledges  these  parting  words  by  any  look; 
but  when  he  has  been  gone  a  little  while,  she  rings  her  bell. 

"  Where  is  Sir  Leicester  ?  " 

Mercury  reports  that  he  is  at  present  shut  up  in  the 
library,  alone. 

"  Has  Sir  Leicester  had  any  visitors  this  morning  ?  " 

Several,  on  business.  Mercury  proceeds  to  a  description 
of  them,  which  has  been  anticipated  by  Mr.  Guppy.  Enough ; 
he  may  go. 

So !  All  is  broken  down.  Her  name  is  in  these  many 
mouths,  her  husband  knows  his  wrongs,  her  shame  will  be 
published  —  may  be  spreading  while  she  thinks  about  it— I 
and  in  addition  to  the  thunderbolt  so  long  foreseen  by  her,  s| 
unforeseen  by  him,  she  is  denounced  by  an  invisible  accuser 
as  the  murderess  of  her  enemy. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


351 


Her  enemy  he  was,  and  she  has  often,  often,  often  wished 
him  dead.  Her  enemy  he  is,  even  in  his  grave.  This  dread- 
ful accusation  comes  upon  her,  like  a  new  torment  at  his  life- 
less hand.  And  when  she  recalls  how  she  was  secretly  at  his 
door  that  night,  and  how  she  may  be  represented  to  have  sent 
her  favorite  girl  away,  so  soon  before,  merely  to  release  herself 
from  observation,  she  shudders  as  if  the  hangman's  hands  were 
at  her  neck. 

She  has  thrown  herself  upon  the  floor,  and  lies  with  her 
hair  all  wildly  scattered,  and  her  face  buried  in  the  cushions 
of  a  couch.  She  rises  up,  hurries  to  and  fro,  flings  herself 
down  again,  and  rocks  and  moans.  The  horror  that  is  upon 
her,  is  unutterable.  If  she  really  were  the  murderess,  it 
could  hardly  be,  for  the  moment,  more  intense. 

For,  as  her  murderous  perspective,  before  the  doing  of  the 
deed,  however  subtle  the  precautions  for  its  commission, 
would  have  been  closed  up  by  a  gigantic  dilatation  of  the 
hateful  figure,  preventing  her  from  seeing  any  consequences 
beyond  it ;  and  as  those  consequences  would  have  rushed  in, 
in  an  unimagined  flood,  the  moment  the  figure  was  laid  low  — 
which  always  happens  when  a  murder  is  done  ;  so  now  she 
sees  that  when  he  used  to  be  on  the  watch  before  her,  and  she 
used  to  think,  "  if  some  mortal  stroke  would  but  fall  on  this 
old  man  and  take  him  from  my  way  ! "  it  was  but  wishing 
that  all  he  held  against  her  in  his  hand  might  be  flung  to  the 
winds,  and  chance-sown  in  many  places.  So,  too,  with  the 
wicked  relief  she  has  felt  in  his  death.  What  was  his  death 
but  the  keystone  of  a  gloomy  arch  removed,  and  now  the 
arch  begins  to  fall  in  a  thousand  fragments,  each  crushing 
and  mangling  piecemeal ! 

Thus,  a  terrible  impression  steals  upon  and  overshadows 
her,  that  from  this  pursuer,  living  or  dead — obdurate  and 
imperturbable  before  her  in  his  well-remembered  shape,  or 
not  more  obdurate  and  imperturbable  in  his  coffin  bed,  — 
there  is  no  escape  but  in  death.    Hunted,  she  flies.  The 

|  complication  of  her  shame,  her  dread,  remorse,  and  misery, 
overwhelms  her  at  its  height ;  and  even  her  strength  of  self- 

i  reliance  is  overturned  and  whirled  away,  like  a  leaf  before  a 
mighty  wind. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


She  hurriedly  addresses  these  lines  to  her  husband,  seals, 
and  leaves  them  on  her  table. 

"  If  I  am  sought  for,  or  accused  of,  his  murder,  believe  that  I  am 
wholly  innocent.  Believe  no  other  good  of  me;  for  I  am  innocent  of 
nothing  else  that  you  have  heard,  or  will  hear,  laid  to  my  charge.  He 
prepared  me,  on  that  fatal  night,  for  his  disclosure  of  my  guilt  to  you. 
After  he  had  left  me,  I  went  out,  on  pretence  of  walking  in  the  garden 
where  I  sometimes  walk,  but  really  to  follow  him,  and  make  one  last 
petition  that  he  would  not  protract  the  dreadful  suspense  on  which  I 
have  been  racked  by  him,  you  do  not  know  how  long,  but  would  merci- 
fully strike  next  morning. 

"I  found  his  house  dark  and  silent.  I  rang  twice  at  his  door,  but 
there  was  no  reply,  and  I  came  home. 

"I  have  no  home  left.  I  will  encumber  you  no  more.  May  you,  in 
your  just  resentment,  be  able  to  forget  the  unworthy  woman  on  whom 
you  have  wasted  a  most  generous  devotion  —  who  avoids  you,  only  with  a 
deeper  shame  than  that  with  which  she  hurries  from  herself  —  and  who 
writes  this  last  adieu!  " 

She  veils  and  dresses  quickly,  leaves  all  her  jewels  and  her 
money,  listens,  goes  down-stairs  at  a  moment  when  the  hall 
is  empty,  opens  and  shuts  the  great  door ;  flutters  away  in  the 
shrill  frosty  wind. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


353 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

PURSUIT. 

Impassive,  as  behooves  its  high  breeding,  the  Dedlock 
town  house  stares  at  the  other  houses  in  the  street  of  dismal 
grandeur,  and  gives  no  outward  sign  of  anything  going  wrong 
within.  Carriages  rattle,  doors  are  battered  at,  the  world 
exchanges  calls :  ancient  charmers  with  skeleton  throats,  and 
peachy  cheeks  that  have  a  rather  ghastly  bloom  upon  them 
seen  by  daylight,  when  indeed  these  fascinating  creatures 
look  like  Death  and  the  Lady  fused  together,  dazzle  the  eyes 
of  men.  Forth  from  the  frigid  Mews  come  easily  swinging 
carriages  guided  by  short-legged  coachmen  in  flaxen  wigs, 
deep  sunk  into  downy  hammercloths ;  and  up  behind  mount 
luscious  Mercuries,  bearing  sticks  of  state,  and  wearing 
cocked  hats  broadwise :  a  spectacle  for  the  Angels. 

The  Dedlock  town  house  changes  not  externally,  and  hours 
pass  before  its  exalted  dulness  is  disturbed  within.  But 
Volumnia  the  fair,  being  subject  to  the  prevalent  complaint 
of  boredom,  and  finding  that  disorder  attacking  her  spirits 
with  some  virulence,  ventures  at  length  to  repair  to  the 
library  for  change  of  scene.  Her  gentle  tapping  at  the  door 
producing  no  response,  she  opens  it  and  peeps  in ;  seeing  no 
one  there,  takes  possession. 

The  sprightly  Dedlock  is  reputed,  in  that  grass-grown  city 
of  the  ancients,  Bath,  to  be  stimulated  by  an  urgent  curiosity, 
which  impels  her  on  all  convenient  and  inconvenient  occasions 
to  sidle  about  with  a  golden  glass  at  her  eye,  peering  into 
objects  of  every  description.  Certain  it  is  that  she  avails 
herself  of  the  present  opportunity  of  hovering  over  her  kins- 
man's letters  and  papers,  like  a  bird  ;  taking  a  short  peck  at 
this  document,  and  a  blink  with  her  head  on  one  side  at  that 
document,  and  hopping  about  from  table  to  table,  with  her 

VOL.  II. 


354 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


glass  at  her  eye  in  an  inquisitive  and  restless  manner.  In 
the  course  of  these  researches  she  stumbles  over  something ; 
and  turning  her  glass  in  that  direction,  sees  her  kinsman 
lying  on  the  ground  like  a  felled  tree. 

Volumnia's  pet  little  scream  acquires  a  considerable  aug- 
mentation of  reality  from  this  surprise,  and  the  house  is 
quickly  in  commotion.  Servants  tear  up  and  down  stairs, 
bells  are  violently  rung,  doctors  are  sent  for,  and  Lady 
Dedlock  is  sought  in  all  directions,  but  not  found.  Nobody 
has  seen  or  heard  her  since  she  last  rang  her  bell.  Her 
letter  to  Sir  Leicester  is  discovered  on  her  table  ;  —  but  it  is 
doubtful  yet  whether  he  has  not  received  another  missive 
from  another  world,  requiring  to  be  personally  answered ;  and 
all  the  living  languages,  and  all  the  dead,  are  as  one  to  him. 

They  lay  him  down  upon  his  bed,  and  chafe,  and  rub,  and 
fan,  and  put  ice  to  his  head,  and  try  every  means  or  restora- 
tion. Howbeit,  the  day  has  ebbed  away,  and  it  is  night  in 
his  room,  before  his  stertorous  breathing  lulls,  or  his  fixed 
eyes  show  any  consciousness  of  the  candle  that  is  occasionally 
passed  before  them.  But  when  this  change  begins  it  goes 
on ;  and  by  and  by  he  nods,  or  moves  his  eyes,  or  even  his 
hand,  in  token  that  he  hears  and  comprehends. 

He  fell  down,  this  morning,  a  handsome  stately  gentleman ; 
somewhat  infirm,  but  of  a  fine  presence,  and  with  a  well-filled 
face.  He  lies  upon  his  bed,  an  aged  man  with  sunken  cheeks, 
the  decrepit  shadow  of  himself.  His  voice  was  rich  and 
mellow ;  and  he  had  so  long  been  thoroughly  persuaded  of 
the  weight  and  import  to  mankind  of  any  word  he  said,  that 
his  words  really  had  come  to  sound  as  if  there  were  something 
in  them.  But  now  he  can  only  whisper ;  and  what  he  whispers 
sounds  like  what  it  is  —  mere  jumble  and  jargon. 

His  favorite  and  faithful  housekeeper  stands  at  his  bedside. 
It  is  the  first  fact  he  notices,  and  he  clearly  derives  pleasure 
from  it.  After  vainly  trying  to  make  himself  understood  in 
speech,  he  makes  signs  for  a  pencil.  So  inexpressively,  that 
they  cannot  at  first  understand  him  ;  it  is  his  old  housekeeper 
who  makes  out  what  he  wants,  and  brings  him  a  slate. 

After  pausing  for  some  time,  he  slowly  scrawls  upon  it,  in 
a  hand  that  is  not  his,  "Chesney  Wold  ?  99 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


355 


No,  she  tells  him ;  he  is  in  London.  He  was  taken  ill  in 
the  library,  this  morning.  Right  thankful  she  is  that  she 
happened  to  come  to  London,  and  is  able  to  attend  upon  him. 

"It  is  not  an  illness  of  any  serious  consequence,  Sir 
Leicester.  You  will  be  much  better  to-morrow,  Sir  Leicester. 
All  the  gentlemen  say  so."  This,  with  the  tears  coursing 
down  her  fair  old  face. 

After  making  a  survey  of  the  room,  and  looking  with  par- 
ticular attention  all  round  the  bed  where  the  doctors  stand, 
he  writes  "  My  Lady." 

"  My  Lady  went  out,  Sir  Leicester,  before  you  were  taken 
ill,  and  don't  know  of  your  illness  yet." 

He  points  again,  in  great  agitation,  at  the  two  words. 
They  all  try  to  quiet  him,  but  he  points  again  with  increased 
agitation.  On  their  looking  at  one  another,  not  knowing 
what  to  say,  he  takes  the  slate  once  more,  and  writes  "  My 
Lady.  For  God's  sake,  where  ?  "  And  makes  an  imploring 
moan. 

It  is  thought  better  that  his  old  housekeeper  should  give 
him  Lady  Dedlock's  letter,  the  contents  of  which  no  one 
knows  or  can  surmise.  She  opens  it  for  him,  and  puts  it 
out  for  his  perusal.  Having  read  it  twice  by  a  great  effort, 
he  turns  it  down  so  that  it  shall  not  be  seen,  and  lies 
moaning.  He  passes  into  a  kind  of  relapse,  or  into  a  swoon  ; 
and  it  is  an  hour  before  he  opens  his  eyes,  reclining  on  his 
faithful  and  attached  old  servant's  arm.  The  doctors  know 
that  he  is  best  with  her ;  and,  when  not  actively  engaged 
about  him,  stand  aloof. 

The  slate  comes  into  requisition  again  ;  but  the  word  he 
wants  to  write,  he  cannot  remember.  His  anxiety,  his 
eagerness,  and  affliction,  at  this  pass,  are  pitiable  to  behold. 
It  seems  as  if  he  must  go  mad,  in  the  necessity  he  feels  for 
haste,  and  the  inability  under  which  he  labors  of  expressing 
to  do  what,  or  to  fetch  whom.  He  has  written  the  letter 
B,  and  there  stopped.  Of  a  sudden,  in  the  height  of  his 
misery,  he  puts  Mr.  before  it.  The  old  housekeeper  suggests 
Bucket.    Thank  Heaven  !    That's  his  meaning. 

Mr.  Bucket  is  found  to  be  down-stairs,  by  appointment. 
Shall  he  come  up  ? 


356 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


There  is  no  possibility  of  misconstruing  Sir  Leicester's 
burning  wish  to  see  him,  or  the  desire  he  signifies  to  have 
the  room  cleared  of  every  one  but  the  housekeeper.  It  is 
speedily  done  ;  and  Mr.  Bucket  appears.  Of  all  men  upon 
earth,  Sir  Leicester  seems  fallen  from  his  high  estate  to  place 
his  sole  trust  and  reliance  upon  this  man. 

"  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you 
like  this.  I  hope  you'll  cheer  up.  I'm  sure  you  will,  on 
account  of  the  family  credit." 

Sir  Leicester  puts  her  letter  in  his  hand,  and  looks  intently 
in  his  face  while  he  reads  it.  A  new  intelligence  comes  into 
Mr.  Bucket's  eye,  as  he  reads  on ;  with  one  hook  of  his 
finger,  while  that  eye  is  still  glancing  over  the  words  he 
indicates,  "  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I  understand 
you." 

"  Sir  Leicester  writes  upon  the  slate.  "  Full  forgiveness. 
Find" —    Mr.  Bucket  stops  his  hand. 

"Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  I'll  find  her.  But  my 
search  after  her  must  be  begun  out  of  hand.  Not  a  minute 
must  be  lost." 

With  the  quickness  of  thought,  he  follows  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock's  look  towards  a  little  box  upon  a  table. 

"  Bring  it  here,  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet  ?  Cer- 
tainly. Open  it  with  one  of  these  here  keys  ?  Certainly. 
The  littlest  key  ?  To  be  sure.  Take  the  notes  out  ?  So  I 
will.  Count  'em  ?  That's  soon  done.  Twenty  and  thirty's 
fifty,  and  twenty's  seventy,  and  fifty's  one  twenty,  and 
forty's  one  sixty.  Take  'em  for  expenses  ?  That  I'll  do, 
and  render  an  account  of  course.  Don't  spare  money  ?  No 
I  won't." 

The  velocity  and  certainty  of  Mr.  Bucket's  interpretation 
on  all  these  heads  is  little  short  of  miraculous.  Mrs.  Eounce- 
well,  who  holds  the  light,  is  giddy  with  the  swiftness  of  his 
eyes  and  hands,  as  he  starts  up,  furnished  for  his  journey. 

"  You're  George's  mother,  old  lady  ;  that's  about  what  you 
are,  I  believe  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bucket,  aside,  with  his  hat  already 
on,  and  buttoning  his  coat. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  his  distressed  mother." 

"  So  I  thought,  according  to  what  he  mentioned  to  me  just 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


357 


now.  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  something.  You  needn't  be 
distressed  no  more.  Your  son's  all  right.  Now  don't  you 
begin  a-crying ;  because  what  you've  got  to  do  is  to  take  care 
of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  and  you  won't  do  that  by 
crying.  As  to  your  son,  he's  all  right,  I  tell  you ;  and  he 
sends  his  loving  duty,  and  hoping  you're  the  same.  He's 
discharged  honorable  ;  that's  what  he  is ;  with  no  more  im- 
putation on  his  character  than  there  is  on  yours,  and  yours 
is  a  tidy  one,  /'ll  bet  a  pound.  You  may  trust  me,  for  I  took 
your  son.  He  conducted  himself  in  a  game  way,  too,  on  that 
occasion ;  and  he's  a  fine-made  man,  and  you're  a  fine-made 
old  lady,  and  you're  a  mother  and  son,  the  pair  of  you,  as 
might  be  showed  for  models  in  a  caravan.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock,  Baronet,  what  you've  trusted  to  me,  I'll  go  through 
with.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  my  turning  out  of  my  way, 
right  or  left ;  or  taking  a  sleep,  or  a  wash,  or  a  shave,  till  I 
have  found  what  I  go  in  search  of.  Say  everything  as  is 
kind  and  forgiving  on  your  part  ?  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock, 
Baronet,  I  will.  And  I  wish  you  better,  and  these  family 
affairs  smoothed  over  —  as,  Lord!  many  other  family  affairs 
equally  has  been,  and  equally  will  be,  to  the  end  of  time." 

With  this  peroration,  Mr.  Bucket,  buttoned  up,  goes  quietly 
out,  looking  steadily  before  him  as  if  he  were  already  piercing 
the  night,  in  quest  of  the  fugitive. 

His  first  step  is  to  take  himself  to  Lady  Dedlock's  rooms, 
and  look  all  over  them  for  any  trifling  indication  that  may 
help  him.  The  rooms  are  in  darkness  now  ;  and  to  see  Mr. 
Bucket  with  a  wax-light  in  his  hand,  holding  it  above  his 
head,  and  taking  a  sharp  mental  inventory  of  the  many  deli- 
cate objects  so  curiously  at  variance  with  himself,  would  be  to 
see  a  sight,  —  which  nobody  does  see,  as  he  is  particular  to 
lock  himself  in. 

"A  spicy  boudoir  this,"  says  Mr.  Bucket,  who  feels  in  a 
manner  furbished  up  in  his  French  by  the  blow  of  the  morn- 
ing. "Must  have  cost  a  sight  of  money.  Bum  articles  to 
cut  away  from,  these  :  she  must  have  been  hard  put  to  it ! " 

Opening  and  shutting  table-drawers,  and  looking  into 
caskets  and  jewel-cases,  he  sees  the  reflection  of  himself  in 
various  mirrors,  and  moralizes  thereon. 


358 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  One  might  suppose  I  was  a-moving  in  the  fashionable 
circles,  and  getting  myself  up  for  Almack's,"  says  Mr. 
Bucket.  "  I  begin  to  think  I  must  be  a  swell  in  the  Guards, 
without  knowing  it." 

Ever  looking  about,  he  has  opened  a  dainty  little  chest  in 
an  inner  drawer.  His  great  hand,  turning  over  some  gloves 
which  it  can  scarcely  feel,  they  are  so  light  and  soft  within  it, 
comes  upon  a  white  handkerchief. 

" Hum !  Let's  have  a  look  at  you"  says  Mr.  Bucket, 
putting  down  the  light.  "  What  should  you  be  kept  by  your- 
self for  ?  What's  your  motive  ?  Are  you  her  Ladyship's 
property,  or  somebody  else's  ?  You've  got  a  mark  upon  you, 
somewheres  or  another,  I  suppose  ?  " 

He  finds  it  as  he  speaks,  "  Esther  Summerson." 

"  Oh  ! "  says  Mr.  Bucket,  pausing,  with  his  finger  at  his 
ear.    "  Come,  I'll  take  you" 

He  completes  his  observations  as  quietly  and  carefully  as  5 
he  has  carried  them  on,  leaves  everything  else  precisely  as  he  \ 
found  it,  glides  away  after  some  live  minutes  in  all,  and  t 
passes  into  the  street.  With  a  glance  upward  at  the  dimly  ■ 
lighted  windows  of  Sir  Leicester's  room,  he  sets  off,  full  swing,  < 
to  the  nearest  coach-stand,  picks  out  the  horse  for  his  money,  . 
and  directs  to  be  driven  to  the  Shooting  Gallery.  Mr.  Bucket  ; 
does  not  claim  to  be  a  scientific  judge  of  horses  ;  but  he  lays  j 
out  a  little  money  on  the  principal  events  in  that  line,  and  \ 
generally  sums  up  his  knowledge  of  the  subject  in  the  remark,  < 
that  when  he  sees  a  horse  as  can  go,  he  knows  him. 

His  knowledge  is  not  at  fault  in  the  present  instance.  \ 
Clattering  over  the  stones  at  a  dangerous  pace,  yet  thought- 
fully bringing  his  keen  eyes  to  bear  on  every  slinking  creature 
whom  he  passes  in  the  midnight  streets,  and  even  on  the  lights 
in  upper  windows  where  people  are  going  or  gone  to  bed,  and 
on  all  the  turnings  that  he  rattles  by,  and  alike  on  the  heavy 
sky,  and  on  the  earth  where  the  snow  lies  thin  —  for  some- 
thing  may  present  itself  to  assist  him,  anywhere  —  he  dashes 
to  his  destination  at  such  a  speed,  that  when  he  stops,  the 
horse  half  smothers  him  in  a  cloud  of  steam. 

"  Unbear  him  half  a  moment  to  freshen  him  up,  and  I'll 
be  back." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


359 


He  runs  up  the  long  wooden  entry,  and  finds  the  trooper 
smoking  his  pipe. 

"I  thought  I  should,  George,  after  what  you  have  gone 
through,  rny  lad.  I  haven't  a  word  to  spare.  Now,  honor ! 
All  to  save  a  woman.  Miss  Summerson  that  was  here  when 
Gridley  died  —  that  was  the  name,  I  know  —  all  right !  — 
where  does  she  live  ?  " 

The  trooper  has  just  come  from  there,  and  gives  him  the 
address  near  Oxford  Street. 

"  You  won't  repent  it,  George.    Good-night !  " 

He  is  off  again,  with  an  impression  of  having  seen  Phil 
sitting  by  the  frosty  fire,  staring  at  him  open-mouthed  ;  and 
gallops  away  again,  and  gets  out  in  a  cloud  of  steam  again.  , 

Mr.  Jarndyce,  the  only  person  up  in  the  house,  is  just  going 
to  bed  :  rises  from  his  book,  on  hearing  the  rapid  ringing  at 
the  bell ;  and  comes  down  to  the  door  in  his  dressing-gown. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir."  In  a  moment  his  visitor  is  con- 
fidential with  him  in  the  hall,  has  shut  the  door,  and  stands 
with  his  hand  upon  the  lock.  "I've  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  before.  Inspector  Bucket.  Look  at  that  hand- 
kerchief, sir,  Miss  Esther  Summerson's.  Found  it  myself  put 
away  in  a  drawer  of  Lady  Dedlock's,  quarter  of  an  hour  ago. 
Not  a  moment  to  lose.  Matter  of  life  or  death.  You  know 
Lady  Dedlock  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  There  has  been  a  discovery  there,  to-day.  Family  affairs 
have  come  out.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  has  had  a  fit 
—  apoplexy  or  paralysis  —  and  couldn't  be  brought  to,  and 
precious  time  has  been  lost.  Lady  Dedlock  disappeared  this 
afternoon,  and  left  a  letter  for  him  that  looks  bad.  Run  your 
eye  over  it.    Here  it  is  ! " 

Mr.  Jarndyce  having  read  it,  asks  him  what  he  thinks  ? 

"I  don't  know.  It  looks  like  suicide.  Anyways  there's 
more  and  more  danger,  every  minute,  of  its  drawing  to  that. 
I'd  give  a  hundred  pound  an  hour  to  have  got  the  start  of  the 
present  time.  Now,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  I  am  employed  by  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  to  follow  her  and  find  her  —  to 
save  her,  and  take  her  his  forgiveness.  I  have  money  and  full 
power,  but  I  want  something  else.    I  want  Miss  Summerson." 


360 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Mr.  Jarndyce  in atroubled  voice,  repeats  "Miss  Summerson?" 

"Now,  Mr.  Jarndyce ;"  Mr.  Bucket  has  read  his  face  with 
the  greatest  attention  all  along ;  "  I  speak  to  you  as  a  gentle- 
man of  a  humane  heart,  and  under  such  pressing  circumstances 
as  don't  often  happen.  If  ever  delay  was  dangerous,  it's  dan- 
gerous now ;  and  if  ever  you  couldn't  afterwards  forgive  your- 
self for  causing  it,  this  is  the  time.  Eight  or  ten  hours,  worth, 
as  I  tell  you,  a  hundred  pound  apiece  at  least,  have  been  lost 
since  Lady  Dedlock  disappeared.  I  am  charged  to  find  her. 
I  am  Inspector  Bucket.  Besides  all  the  rest  that's  heavy  on 
her,  she  has  upon  her,  as  she  believes,  suspicion  of  murder. 
If  I  follow  her  alone,  she,  being  in  ignorance  of  what  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  has  communicated  to  me,  may  be 
driven  to  desperation.  But  if  I  follow  her  in  company  with  a 
young  lady,  answering  to  the  description  of  a  young  lady  that 
she  has  a  tenderness  for  —  I  ask  no  question,  and  I  say  no 
more  than  that  —  she  will  give  me  credit  for  being  friendly. 
Let  me  come  up  with  her,  and  be  able  to  have  the  hold  upon 
her  of  putting  that  yaung  lady  for'ard,  and  I'll  save  her  and 
prevail  with  her  if  she  is  alive.  Let  me  come  up  with  her 
alone  —  a  harder  matter  —  and  I'll  do  my  best;  but  I  don't 
answer  for  what  the  best  may  be.  Time  flies  ;  it's  getting  on 
for  one  o'clock.  When  one  strikes,  there's  another  hour  gone ; 
and  it's  worth  a  thousand  pound  now,  instead  of  a  hundred." 

This  is  all  true,  and  the  pressing  nature  of  the  case  cannot  j 
be  questioned.  Mr.  Jarndyce  begs  him  to  remain  there,  while  < 
he  speaks  to  Miss  Summerson.  Mr.  Bucket  says  he  will;  but 
acting  on  his  usual  principle,  does  no  such  thing  —  following 
up-stairs  instead,  and  keeping  his  man  in  sight.  So  he  remains, 
dodging  and  lurking  about  in  the  gloom  of  the  staircase,  while 
they  confer.  In  a  very  little  time,  Mr.  Jarndyce  comes  down, 
and  tells  him  that  Miss  Summerson  will  join  him  directly,  and 
place  herself  under  his  protection,  to  accompany  him  where 
he  pleases.  Mr.  Bucket,  satisfied,  expresses  high  approval; 
and  awaits  her  coming  at  the  door. 

There,  he  mounts  a  high  tower  in  his  mind,  and  looks  out, 
far  and  wide.  Many  solitary  figures  he  perceives,  creeping 
through  the  streets ;  many  solitary  figures  ojut  on  heaths,  and 
roads,  and  lying  under  haystacks.    But  the  figure  that  he 


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361* 


seeks,  is  not  among  them.  Other  solitaries  he  perceives,  in 
nooks  of  bridges,  looking  over ;  and  in  shadowed  places  down 
by  the  river's  level ;  and  a  dark,  dark,  shapeless  object  drift- 
ing with  the  tide,  more  solitary  than  all,  clings  with  a  drown- 
ing hold  on  his  attention. 

Where  is  she  ?  Living  or  dead,  where  is  she  ?  If,  as  he 
folds  the  handkerchief  and  carefully  puts  it  up,  it  were  able, 
with  an  enchanted  power,  to  bring  before  him  the  place  where 
she  found  it,  and  the  night  landscape  near  the  cottage  where 
it  covered  the  little  child,  would  he  descry  her  there  ?  On  the 
waste,  where  the  brick-kilns  are  burning  with  a  pale  blue 
flare ;  where  the  straw  roofs  of  the  wretched  huts  in  which 
the  bricks  are  made,  are  being  scattered  by  the  wind ;  where 
the  clay  and  water  are  hard  frozen,  and  the  mill  in  which  the 
gaunt  blind  horse  goes  round  all  day,  looks  like  an  instrument 
of  human  torture; — traversing  this  deserted  blighted  spot, 
there  is  a  lonely  figure  with  the  sad  world  to  itself,  pelted  by 
the  snow  and  driven  by  the  wind,  and  cast  out,  it  would  seem, 
from  all  companionship.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  woman,  too  ; 
but  it  is  miserably  dressed,  and  no  such  clothes  ever  came 
through  the  hall,  and  out  at  the  great  door,  of  the  Dedlock 
mansion. 


362 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTEE  XXVI. 
Esther's  narrative. 

I  had  gone  to  bed  and  fallen  asleep,  when  my  Guardian 
knocked  at  the  door  of  my  room  and  begged  me  to  get  up 
directly.    On  my  hurrying  to  speak  to  him  and  learn  what 
had  happened,  he  told  me,  after  a  word  or  two  of  preparation, 
that  there  had  been  a  discovery  at  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's. 
That  my  mother  had  fled ;  that  a  person  was  now  at  our  door  [ 
who  was  empowered  to  convey  to  her  the  fullest  assurances  of : 
affection  and  protection  and  forgiveness,  if  he  could  possibly' 
find  her ;  and  that  I  was  sought  for  to  accompany  him,  in  the , 
hope  that  my  entreaties  might  prevail  upon  her,  if  his  failed. ' 
Something  to  this  general  purpose  I  made  out ;  but  I  was 
thrown  into  such  a  tumult  of  alarm,  and  hurry  and  distress, ; 
that  in  spite  of  every  effort  I  could  make  to  subdue  my  agita- 
tion, I  did  not  seem,  to  myself,  fully  to  recover  my  right  mind  1 
until  hours  had  passed. 

But,  I  dressed  and  wrapped  up  expeditiously  without  waking  \ 
Charley,  or  any  one ;  and  went  down  to  Mr.  Bucket,  who  was  j 
the  person  intrusted  with  the  secret.    In  taking  me  to  him  ' 
my  Guardian  told  me  this,  and  also  explained  how  it  was  that ' 
he  had  come  to  think  of  me.    Mr.  Bucket  in  a  low  voice,  by 
the  light  of  my  Guardian's  candle,  read  to  me,  in  the  hall,  a 
letter  that  my  mother  had  left  upon  her  table;  and,  I  suppose 
within  ten  minutes  of  my  having  been  aroused,  I  was  sitting 
beside  him,  rolling  swiftly  through  the  streets. 

His  manner  was  very  keen,  and  yet  considerate  when  he 
explained  to  me  that  a  great  deal  might  depend  on  my  being 
able  to  answer,  without  confusion,  a  few  questions  that  he 
wished  to  ask  me.  These  were,  chiefly,  whether  I  had  had 
much  communication  with  my  mother  (to  whom  he  only 
referred  as  Lady  Dedlock) ;  when  and  where  I  had  spoken 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


363 


with  her  last;  and  how  she  had  become  possessed  of  my  hand- 
kerchief. When  I  had  satisfied  him  on  these  points,  he  asked 
me  particularly  to  consider  —  taking  time  to  think  —  whether 
within  m,y  knowledge,  there  was  any  one,  no  matter  where,  in 
whom  she  might  be  at  all  likely  to  confide,  under  circumstances 
of  the  last  necessity.  I  could  think  of  no  one  but  my  Guardian. 
But,  by  and  by,  I  mentioned  Mr.  Boythorn.  He  came  into  my 
mind,  as  connected  with  his  old  chivalrous  manner  of  men- 
tioning my  mothers  name ;  and  with  what  my  Guardian  had 
informed  me  of  his  engagement  to  her  sister,  and  his  uncon- 
scious connection  with  her  unhappy  story. 

My  companion  had  stopped  the  driver  while  we  held  this 
conversation,  that  we  might  the  better  hear  each  other.  He 
now  told  him  to  go  on  again ;  and  said  to  me,  after  consider- 
ing within  himself  for  a  few  moments,  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  how  to  proceed.  He  was  quite  willing  to  tell  me 
what  his  plan  was,  but  I  did  not  feel  clear  enough  to  under- 
stand it. 

We  had  not  driven  very  far  from  our  lodgings,  when  we 
stopped  in  a  bystreet,  at  a  public-looking  place  lighted  up 
with  gas.  Mr.  Bucket  took  me  in  and  sat  me  in  an  arm-chair, 
by  a  bright  fire.  It  was  now  past  one,  as  I  saw  by  the  clock 
against  the  wall.  Two  police  officers,  looking  in  their  per- 
fectly neat  uniform  not  at  all  like  people  who  were  up  all 
night,  were  quietly  writing  at  a  desk ;  and  the  place  seemed 
very  quiet,  altogether,  except  for  some  beating  and  calling 
out  at  distant  doors  underground,  to  which  nobody  paid  any 
attention. 

A  third  man  in  uniform,  whom  Mr.  Bucket  called,  and  to 
whom  he  whispered  his  instructions,  went  out;  and  then  the 
two  others  advised  together,  while  one  wrote  from  Mr.  Bucket's 
subdued  dictation.  It  was  a  description  of  my  mother  that 
they  were  busy  with;  for  Mr.  Bucket  brought  it  to  me  when 
it  was  done,  and  read  it  in  a  whisper.  It  was  very  accurate 
indeed. 

The  second  officer,  who  had  attended  to  it  closely,  then 
copied  it  out,  and  called  in  another  man  in  uniform  (there 
were  several  in  an  outer  room)  who  took  it  up  and  went  away 
with  it.    All  this  was  done  with  the  greatest  despatch,  and 


! 


364 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


without  the  waste  of  a  moment ;  yet  nobody  was  at  all  hurried. 
As  soon  as  the  paper  was  sent  out  upon  its  travels,  the  two 
officers  resumed  their  former  quiet  work  of  writing  with  neat- 
ness and  care.  Mr.  Bucket  thoughtfully  came  and  warmed 
the  soles  of  his  boots,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  at  the  fire. 

"  Are  you  well  wrapped  up,  Miss  Summerson  ?  "  he  asked 
me,  as  his  eyes  met  mine.  "  It's  a  desperate  sharp  night  for 
a  young  lady  to  be  out  in." 

I  told  him  I  cared  for  no  weather,  and  was  warmly  clothed. 

"It  may  be  a  long  job,"  he  observed;  "but  so  that  it  ends 
well,  never  mind,  miss." 

"  I  pray  to  Heaven  it  may  end  well ! "  said  I. 

He  nodded  comfortingly.  "  You  see,  whatever  you  do,  don't 
you  go  and  fret  yourself.  You  keep  yourself  cool,  and  equal 
for  anything  that  may  happen ;  and  it'll  be  the  better  for  you, 
the  better  for  me,  the  better  for  Lady  Dedlock,  and  the  better 
for  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet." 

He  was  really  very  kind  and  gentle ;  and  as  he  stood  before 
the  fire  warming  his  boots,  and  rubbing  his  face  with  his  fore- 
finger, I  felt  a  confidence  in  his  sagacity  which  reassured  me. 
It  was  not  yet  a  quarter  to  two,  when  I  heard  horses'  feet  and 
wheels  outside.  "Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he,  "we  are 
off,  if  you  please  ! " 

He  gave  me  his  arm,  and  the  two  officers  courteously  bowed  { 
me  out,  and  we  found  at  the  door  a  phaeton  or  barouche,  with 
a  postilion  and  post  horses.  Mr.  Bucket  handed  me  in,  and  \ 
took  his  own  seat  on  the  box.  The  man  in  uniform  whom  he  j 
had  sent  to  fetch  this  equipage,  then  handed  him  up  a  dark  1 
lantern  at  his  request;  and  when  he  had  given  a  few  directions 
to  the  driver,  we  rattled  away. 

I  was  far  from  sure  that  I  was  not  in  a  dream.  We  rattled 
with  great  rapidity  through  such  a  labyrinth  of  streets,  that  I 
soon  lost  all  idea  where  we  were ;  except  that  we  had  crossed 
and  re-crossed  the  river,  and  still  seemed  to  be  traversing  a 
low-lying,  water-side,  dense  neighborhood  of  narrow  thorough- 
fares, checkered  by  docks  and  basins,  high  piles  of  warehouses, 
swing-bridges,  and  masts  of  ships.  At  length  we  stopped  at 
the  corner  of  a  little  slimy  turning,  which  the  wind  from  the 
river,  rushing  up  it,  did  not  purify ;  and  I  saw  my  companion, 


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365 


by  the  light  of  his  lantern,  in  conference  with  several  men, 
who  looked  like  a  mixture  of  police  and  sailors.  Against  the 
mouldering  wall  by  which  they  stood,  there  was  a  bill  on 
which  I  could  discern  the  words,  "  Found  Drowned  ; "  and 
this,  and  an  inscription  about  Drags,  possessed  me  with  the 
awful  suspicion  shadowed  forth  in  our  visit  to  that  place. 

I  had  no  need  to  remind  myself  that  I  was  not  there,  by  the 
indulgence  of  any  feeling  of  mine,  to  increase  the  difficulties 
of  the  search,  or  to  lessen  its  hopes,  or  enhance  its  delays.  I 
remained  quiet ;  but  what  I  suffered  in  that  dreadful  spot  I 
never  can  forget.  And  still  it  was  like  the  horror  of  a  dream. 
A  man  yet  dark  and  muddy,  in  long  swollen  sodden  boots  and 
a  hat  like  them,  was  called  out  of  a  boat,  and  whispered  with 
Mr.  Bucket,  who  went  away  with  him  down  some  slippery 
steps  —  as  if  to  look  at  something  secret  that  he  had  to  show. 
They  came  back  wiping  their  hands  upon  their  coats,  after 
turning  over  something  wet ;  but  thank  God  it  was  not  what 
I  feared ! 

After  some  further  conference,  Mr.  Bucket  (whom  every- 
body seemed  to  know  and  defer  to)  went  in  with  the  others  at 
a  door,  and  left  me  in  the  carriage ;  while  the  driver  walked 
up  and  down  by  his  horses,  to  warm  himself.  The  tide  was 
coming  in,  as  I  judged  from  the  sound  it  made ;  and  I  could 
hear  it  break  at  the  end  of  the  alley,  with  a  little  rush  towards 
me.  It  never  did  so  —  and  I  thought  it  did  so,  hundreds  of 
times,  in  what  can  have  been  at  the  most  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  probably  was  less  —  but  the  thought  shuddered  through 
me  that  it  would  cast  my  mother  at  the  horses'  feet. 

Mr.  Bucket  came  out  again,  exhorting  the  others  to  be 
vigilant,  darkened  his  lantern,  and  once  more  took  his  seat. 
I  "Don't  you  be  alarmed,  Miss  Summerson,  on  account  of  our 
;  coming  down  here,"  he  said,  turning  to  me.  u  I  only  want  to 
j  have  everything  in  train,  and  to  know  that  it  is  in  train,  by 
>   looking  after  it  myself.    Get  on,  my  lad  ! " 

We  appeared  to  retrace  the  way  we  had  come.  Not  that  I 
had  taken  note  of  any  particular  objects  in  my  perturbed  state 
of  mind,  but  judging  from  the  general  character  of  the  streets. 
We  called  at  another  office  or  station  for  a  minute,  and  crossed 
the  river  again.    During  the  whole  of  this  time,  and  during 


366 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


the  whole  search,  my  companion,  wrapped  up  on  the  box, 
never  relaxed  in  his  vigilance  a  single  moment ;  but,  when  we 
crossed  the  bridge  he  seemed,  if  possible,  to  be  more  on  the 
alert  than  before.  He  stood  up  to  look  over  the  parapet ;  he 
alighted,  and  went  back  after  a  shadowy  female  figure  that 
flitted  past  us ;  and  he  gazed  into  the  profound  black  pit  of 
water,  with  a  face  that  made  my  heart  die  within  me.  The 
river  had  a  fearful  look,  so  overcast  and  secret,  creeping  away 
so  fast  between  the  low  flat  lines  of  shore :  so  heavy  with 
indistinct  and  awful  shapes,  both  of  substance  and  shadow : 
so  deathlike  and  mysterious.  I  have  seen  it  many  times  since 
then,  by  sunlight  and  by  moonlight,  but  never  free  from  the 
impressions  of  that  journey.  In  my  memory,  the  lights  upon 
the  bridge  are  always  burning  dim ;  the  cutting  wind  is  eddy- 
ing round  the  homeless  woman  whom  we  pass ;  the  monoto- 
nous wheels  are  whirling  on ;  and  the  light  of  the  carriage 
lamps  reflected  back,  looks  palely  in  upon  me  —  a  face,  rising 
out  of  the  dreaded  water. 

Clattering  and  clattering  through  the  empty  streets,  we 
came  at  length  from  the  pavement  on  to  dark  smooth  roads, 
and  began  to  leave  the  houses  behind  us.  After  a  while,  I 
recognized  the  familiar  way  to  Saint  Albans.  At  Barnet, 
fresh  horses  were  ready  for  us,  and  we  changed  and  went  on. 
It  was  very  cold  indeed ;  and  the  open  country  was  white  with 
snow,  though  none  was  falling  then. 

"An  old  acquaintance  of  yours,  this  road,  Miss  Summerson," 
said  Mr.  Bucket,  cheerfully. 

"Yes,"  I  returned.    "Have  you  gathered  any  intelligence?" 

"  None  that  can  be  quite  depended  on  as  yet,"  he  answered ; 
"  but  it's  early  times  as  yet." 

He  had  gone  into  every  late  or  early  public-house  where 
there  was  a  light  (there  were  not  a  few  at  that  time,  the  road 
being  then  much  frequented  by  drovers),  and  had  got  down 
to  talk  to  the  turnpike  keepers.  I  had  heard  him  ordering 
drink,  and  chinking  money,  and  making  himself  agreeable 
and  merry  everywhere ;  but  whenever  he  took  his  seat  upon 
the  box  again,  his  face  resumed  its  watchful  steady  look,  and 
he  always  said  to  the  driver  in  the  same  business  tone,  "  Get 
on,  my  lad  ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


367 


With  all  these  stoppages,  it  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock 
and  we  were  yet  a  few  miles  short  of  Saint  Albans,  when  he 
came  ont  of  one  of  these  honses  and  handed  me  in  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Drink  it,  Miss  Summerson,  it'll  do  yon  good.  You're 
beginning  to  get  more  yourself  now,  ain't  you  ?  " 

I  thanked  him,  and  said  I  hoped  so. 

"You  was  what  you  may  call  stunned  at  first,"  he  returned; 
"  and  Lord  !  no  wonder.  Don't  speak  loud,  my  dear.  It's  all 
right.    She's  on  ahead." 

I  don't  know  what  joyful  exclamation  I  made,  or  was  going 
to  make,  but  he  put  up  his  finger,  and  I  stopped  myself. 

"  Passed  through  here  on  foot,  this  evening,  about  eight  or 
nine.  I  heard  of  her  first  at  the  archway  toll,  over  at  High- 
gate,  but  couldn't  make  quite  sure.  Traced  her  all  along,  on 
and  off.  Picked  her  up  at  one  place,  and  dropped  her  at 
another;  but  she's  before  us  now,  safe.  Take  hold  of  this 
cup  and  saucer,  Ostler.  Now,  if  you  wasn't  brought  up  to  the 
butter  trade,  look  out  and  see  if  you  can  catch  half  a  crown  in 
your  t'other  hand.  One,  two,  three,  and  there  you  are  !  Now, 
my  lad,  try  a  gallop  ! " 

We  were  soon  in  Saint  Albans,  and  alighted  a  little  before 
day,  when  I  was  just  beginning  to  arrange  and  comprehend 
the  occurrences  of  the  night,  and  really  to  believe  that  they 
were  not  a  dream.  Leaving  the  carriage  at  the  posting-house, 
and  ordering  fresh  horses  to  be  ready,  my  companion  gave  me 
his  arm,  and  we  went  towards  home. 

"As  this  is  your  regular  abode,  Miss  Summerson,  you  see," 
he  observed,  "I  should  like  to  know  whether  you've  been  asked 
for  by  any  stranger  answering  the  description,  or  whether  Mr. 
Jarndyce  has.    I  don't  much  expect  it,  but  it  might  be." 

As  we  ascended  the  hill,  he  looked  about  him  with  a  sharp 
eye  —  the  day  was  now  breaking  —  and  reminded  me  that  I 
had  come  down  it  one  night,  as  I  had  reason  for  remembering, 
with  my  little  servant  and  poor  Jo  :  whom  he  called  Toughey. 

I  wondered  how  he  knew  that. 

"When  you  passed  a  man  upon  the  road,  just  yonder,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

Yes,  I  remembered  that  too,  very  well. 
"  That  was  me,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 


368 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Seeing  my  surprise,  he  went  on,  — 

"I  drove  down  in  a  gig  that  afternoon,  to  look  after  that 
boy.  You  might  have  heard  my  wheels  when  you  came  out  to 
look  after  him  yourself,  for  I  was  aware  of  you  and  your  little 
maid  going  up,  when  I  was  walking  the  horse  down.  Making 
an  inquiry  or  two  about  him  in  the  town,  I  soon  heard  what 
company  he  was  in ;  and  was  coming  among  the  brick-fields 
to  look  for  him,  when  I  observed  you  bringing  him  home 
here." 

"  Had  he  committed  any  crime  ? 99  I  asked. 

"None  was  charged  against  him,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  coolly 
lifting  off  his  hat ;  "  but  I  suppose  he  wasn't  over  particular. 
No.  What  I  wanted  him  for,  was  in  connection  with  keeping 
this  very  matter  of  Lady  Dedlock  quiet.  He  had  been  making 
his  tongue  more  free  than  welcome,  as  to  a  small  accidental 
service  he  had  been  paid  for  by  the  deceased  Mr.  Tulkinghorn ; 
and  it  wouldn't  do  at  any  sort  of  price,  to  have  him  playing 
those  games.  So  having  warned  him  out  of  London,  I  made 
an  afternoon  of  it  to  warn  him  to  keep  out  of  it  now  he  was 
away,  and  go  farther  from  it,  and  maintain  a  bright  lookout 
that  I  didn't  catch  him  coming  back  again." 

"  Poor  creature  !  "  said  I. 

"Poor  enough,"  assented  Mr.  Bucket,  "and  trouble  enough,  I 
and  well  enough  away  from  London,  or  anywhere  else.    I  was 
regularly  turned  on  my  back  when  I  found  him  taken  up  by  I 
your  establishment,  I  do  assure  you." 

I  asked  him  why?  "Why,  my  dear?"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 
"  Naturally  there  was  no  end  to  his  tongue  then.  He  might 
as  well  have  been  born  with  a  yard  and  a  half  of  it,  and  a 
remnant  over." 

Although  I  remember  this  conversation  now,  my  head  was 
in  confusion  at  the  time,  and  my  power  of  attention  hardly 
did  more  than  enable  me  to  understand  that  he  entered  into 
these  particulars  to  divert  me.  With  the  same  kind  intention, 
manifestly,  he  often  spoke  to  me  of  indifferent  things,  while 
his  face  was  busy  with  the  one  object  that  he  had  in  view. 
He  still  pursued  this  subject,  as  we  turned  in  at  the  garden 
gate. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Bucket.     "Here  we  are,  and  a  nice 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  369 

retired  place  it  is.  Puts  a  man  in  mind  of  the  country-house 
in  the  Woodpecker  tapping,  that  was  known  by  the  smoke 
which  so  gracefully  curled.  They're  early  with  the  kitchen 
fire,  and  that  denotes  good  servants.  But  what  you've  always 
got  to  be  careful  of  with  servants,  is,  who  comes  to  see  'em; 
you  never  know  what  they're  up  to,  if  you  don't  know  that. 
And  another  thing,  my  dear.  Whenever  you  find  a  young  man 
behind  the  kitchen  door,  you  give  that  young  man  in  charge 
on  suspicion  of  being  secreted  in  a  dwelling-house  with  an 
unlawful  purpose." 

We  were  now  in  front  of  the  house  ;  he  looked  attentively 
and  closely  at  the  gravel  for  footprints,  before  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  windows. 

"  Do  you  generally  put  that  elderly  young  gentleman  in  the 
same  room,  when  he's  on  a  visit  here,  Miss  Summerson  ? " 
he  inquired,  glancing  at  Mr.  Skimpole's  usual  chamber. 

"You  know  Mr.  Skimpole  ! "  said  I. 

"  What  do  you  call  him  again  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Bucket, 
bending  down  his  ear.  "  Skimpole,  is  it  ?  I've  often  won- 
dered what  his  name  might  be.  Skimpole.  Not  John,  I 
should  say,  nor  yet  Jacob  ?  " 

"Harold,"  I  told  him. 

"  Harold.    Yes.    He's  a  queer  bird  is  Harold,"  said  Mr. 
Bucket,  eying  me  with  great  expression. 
"  He  is  a  singular  character,"  said  I. 

"]STo  idea  of  money,"  observed  Mr.  Bucket.  —  "He  takes  it 
though ! " 

I  involuntarily  returned  for  answer,  that  I  perceived  Mr. 
Bucket  knew  him. 

"  Why,  now  I'll  tell  you,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  rejoined. 
"Your  mind  will  be  all  the  better  for  not  running  on  one 
point  too  continually,  and  I'll  tell  you  for  a  change.  It  was 
him  as  pointed  out  to  me  where  Toughey  was.  I  made  up 
my  mind,  that  night,  to  come  to  the  door  and  ask  for  Toughey, 
if  that  was  all ;  but,  willing  to  try  a  move  or  so  first,  if  any 
such  was  on  the  board,  I  just  pitched  up  a  morsel  of  gravel 
at  that  window  where  I  saw  a  shadow.  As  soon  as  Harold 
opens  it  and  I  have  had  a  look  at  him,  thinks  I,  you're  the 
man  for  me.    So  1  smoothed  him  down  a  bit,  about  not 

VOL.  II. 


370 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


wanting  to  disturb  the  family  after  they  was  gone  to  bed,  and 
about  it's  being  a  thing  to  be  regretted  that  charitable  young 
ladies  should  harbor  vagrants ;  and  then,  when  I  pretty  well 
understood  his  ways,  I  said,  I  should  consider  a  fypunnote 
well  bestowed  if  I  could  relieve  the  premises  of  Toughey 
without  causing  any  noise  or  trouble.  Then  says  he,  lifting 
up  his  eyebrows  in  the  gayest  way,  '  it's  no  use  mentioning 
a  fypunnote  to  me,  my  friend,  because  I'm  a  mere  child  in 
such  matters,  and  have  no  idea  of  money.'  Of  course  I 
understood  what  his  taking  it  so  easy  meant ;  and  being  now 
quite  sure  he  was  the  man  for  me,  I  wrapped  the  note  round 
a  little  stone  and  threw  it  up  to  him.  Well !  He  laughs 
and  beams,  and  looks  as  innocent  as  you  like,  and  says,  'But 
I  don't  know  the  value  of  these  things.  What  am  I  to  do 
with  this  ?  '  —  '  Spend  it,  sir,'  says  I.  6  But  I  shall  be  taken 
in,'  he  says,  i  they  won't  give  me  the  right  change,  I  shall 
lose  it,  it's  no  use  to  me.'  Lord,  you  never  saw  such  a  face 
as  he  carried  it  with !  Of  course  he  told  me  where  to  find 
Toughey,  and  I  found  him." 

I  regarded  this  as  very  treacherous  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Skimpole  towards  my  Guardian,  and  as  passing  the  usual 
bounds  of  his  childish  innocence. 

"  Bounds,  my  dear  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Bounds  ? 
Now,  Miss  Summerson,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice  that 
your  husband  will  find  useful  when  you  are  happily  married 
and  have  got  a  family  about  you.  Whenever  a  person  says 
to  you  that  they  are  as  innocent  as  can  be  in  all  concerning 
money,  look  well  after  your  own  money,  for  they  are  dead 
certain  to  collar  it,  if  they  can.  Whenever  a  person  pro- 
claims to  you '  In  worldly  matters  I'm  a  child,'  you  consider  that 
that  person  is  only  a  crying  off  from  being  held  accountable, 
and  that  you  have  got  that  person's  number,  and  it's  Number 
One.  Now,  I  am  not  a  poetical  man  myself,  except  in  a  vocal 
way  when  it  goes  round  a  company,  but  I'm  a  practical  one, 
and  that's  my  experience.  So's  this  rule.  Fast  and  loose  in 
one  thing.  Fast  and  loose  in  everything.  I  never  knew  it 
fail.  No  more  will  you.  Nor  no  one.  With  which  caution 
to  the  unwary,  my  dear,  I  take  the  liberty  of  pulling  this  here 
bell,  and  so  go  back  to  our  business." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


371 


I  believe  it  had  not  been  for  a  moment  out  of  his  mind, 
any  more  than  it  had  been  out  of  my  mind,  or  out  of  his 
face.  The  whole  household  were  amazed  to  see  me,  without 
any  notice,  at  that  time  in  the  morning,  and  so  accompanied ; 
and  their  surprise  was  not  diminished  by  my  inquiries.  ]STo 
one,  however,  had  been  there.  It  could  not  be  doubted  that 
this  was  the  truth. 

"Then,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  my  companion,  "we  can't 
be  too  soon  at  the  cottage  where  those  brickmakers  are  to  be 
found.  Most  inquiries  there  I  leave  to  you,  if  you'll  be  so 
good  as  to  make  ?em.  The  naturalest  way  is  the  best  way, 
and  the  naturalest  way  is  your  own  way.'7 

We  set  off  again  immediately.  On  arriving  at  the  cottage, 
we  found  it  shut  up,  and  apparently  deserted ;  but  one  of  the 
neighbors  who  knew  me,  and  who  came  out  when  I  was 
trying  to  make  some  one  hear,  informed  me  that  the  two 
women  and  their  husbands  now  lived  together  in  another 
house,  made  of  loose  rough  bricks,  which  stood  on  the  margin 
of  the  piece  of  ground  where  the  kilns  were,  and  where  the 
long  rows  of  bricks  were  drying.  We  lost  no  time  in 
repairing  to  this  place,  which  was  within  a  few  hundred 
yards ;  and  as  the  door  stood  ajar,  I  pushed  it  open. 

There  were  only  three  of  them  sitting  at  breakfast;  the 
child  lying  asleep  on  a  bed  in  the  corner.  It  was  Jenny,  the 
mother  of  the  dead  child,  who  was  absent.  The  other  woman 
rose  on  seeing  me ;  and  the  men,  though  they  were,  as  usual, 
sulky  and  silent,  each  gave  me  a  morose  nod  of  recognition. 
A  look  passed  between  them  when  Mr.  Bucket  followed  me  in, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  woman  evidently  knew 
him. 

I  had  asked  leave  to  enter  of  course.  Liz  (the  only  name 
by  which  I  knew  her)  rose  to  give  me  her  own  chair,  but  I 
sat  down  on  a  stool  near  the  fire,  and  Mr.  Bucket  took  a 
corner  of  the  bedstead.  Now  that  I  had  to  speak,  and  was 
among  people  with  whom  I  was  not  familiar,  I  became  con- 
scious of  being  hurried  and  giddy.  It  was  very  difficult  to 
begin,  and  I  could  not  help  bursting  into  tears. 

"Liz/7  said  I,  "I  have  come  a  long  way  in  the  night  and 
through  the  snow,  to  inquire  after  a  lady  "  — 


372 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"Who  has  been  here,  you  know,"  Mr.  Bucket  struck  in, 
addressing  the  whole  group,  with  a  composed  propitiatory 
face  ;  "  that's  the  lady  the  young  lady  means.  The  lady  that 
was  here  last  night,  you  know." 

"And  who  told  you  as  there  was  anybody  here  ?"  inquired 
Jenny's  husband,  who  had  made  a  surly  stop  in  his  eating,  to 
listen,  and  now  measured  him  with  his  eye. 

"A  person  of  the  name  of  Michael  Jackson,  in  a  blue 
welveteen  waistcoat  with  a  double  row  of  mother  of  pearl 
buttons,"  Mr.  Bucket  immediately  answered. 

"  He  had  as  good  mind  his  own  business,  whoever  he  is," 
growled  the  man. 

"He's  out  of  employment  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
apologetically  for  Michael  Jackson,  "  and  so  gets  talking." 

The  woman  had  not  resumed  her  chair,  but  stood  faltering 
with  her  hand  upon  its  broken  back,  looking  at  me.    I  thought 
she  would  have  spoken  to  me  privately,  if  she  had  dared.  She 
was  still  in  this  attitude  of  uncertainty,  when  her  husband,  , 
who  was  eating  with  a  lump  of  bread  and  fat  in  one  hand, i 
and  his  clasp-knife  in  the  other,  struck  the  handle  of  his  knife  ' 
violently  on  the  table,  and  told  her  with  an  oath  to  mind  her ; 
business  at  any  rate,  and  sit  down. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  Jenny  very  much,"  said  I,  "'for  ! 
I  am  sure  she  would  have  told  me  all  she  could  about  this; 
lady,  whom  I  am  very  anxious  indeed  —  you  cannot  think  how; 
anxious  —  to  overtake.  Will  Jenny  be  here  soon  ?  Where  is' 
she  ?  " 

The  woman  had  a  great  desire  to  answer,  but  the  man/ 
with  another  oath,  openly  kicked  at  her  foot  with  his  heavy , 
boot.  He  left  it  to  Jenny's  husband  to  say  what  he  chose,  j 
and  after  a  dogged  silence  the  latter  turned  his  shaggy  head  j 
towards  me. 

"I'm  not  partial  to  gentlefolks  coming  into  my  place,  as 
you've  heerd  me  say  afore  now,  I  think,  miss.  I  let  theirj 
places  be,  and  it's  curous  they  can't  let  my  place  be.  There'd 
be  a  pretty  shine  made  if  I  was  to  go  a-wisiting  them,  I  think.) 
Howsoever,  I  don't  so  much  complain  of  you  as  of  somel 
others ;  and  I'm  agreeable  to  make  you  a  civil  answer,  thoughj 
I  give  notice  that  I'm  not  a-going  to  be  drawed  like  a  badger. t 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  373 

Will  Jenny  be  here  soon?  No  she  won't.  Where  is  she? 
She's  gone  up  to  Lunnun." 

"Did  she  go  last  night  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Did  she  go  last  night  ?  Ah !  she  went  last  night,"  he 
answered,  with  a  sulky  jerk  of  his  head. 

"  But  was  she  here  when  the  lady  came  ?  And  what  did 
the  lady  say  to  her  ?  And  where  is  the  lady  gone  ?  I  beg 
and  pray  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me,"  said  I,  «  for  I  am  in 
great  distress  to  know." 

"  If  my  master  would  let  me  speak,  and  not  say  a  word  of 
harm  "  —  the  woman  timidly  began. 

"  Your  master,"  said  her  husband,  muttering  an  imprecation 
with  slow  emphasis,  "will  break  your  neck,  if  you  meddle 
with  wot  don't  concern  you." 

After  another  silence,  the  husband  of  the  absent  woman, 
turning  to  me  again,  answered  me  with  his  usual  grumbling 
unwillingness. 

"Wos  Jenny  here  when  the  lady  come?  Yes,  she  wos 
here  when  the  lady  come.  Wot  did  the  lady  say  to  her? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  wot  the  lady  said  to  her.  She  said,  <  You 
remember  me  as  come  one  time  to  talk  to  you  about  the 
young  lady  as  had  been  a  wisiting  of  you  ?  You  remember 
me  as  give  you  somethink  handsome  for  a  handkercher  wot 
she  had  left  ?  '  Ah,  she  remembered.  So  we  all  did.  Well, 
then,  wos  that  young  lady  up  at  the'  house  now  ?  No  she 
warn't  up  at  the  house  now.  Well,  then,  lookee  here.  The 
lady  was  upon  a  journey  all  alone,  strange  as  we  might  think 
t,  and  could  she  rest  herself  where  you're  a  setten,  for  a  hour 
>r  so.  Yes  she  could,  and  so  she  did,  Then  she  went  — it 
night  be  at  twenty  minutes  past  eleven,  and  it  might  be  at 
■wenty  minutes  past  twelve ;  we  ain't  got  no  watches  here  to 
enow  the  time  by,  nor  yet  clocks.  Where  did  she  go  9  I 
lon't  know  where  she  go'd.  She  went  one  way,  and  Jenny 
vent  another;  one  went  right  to  Lunnun,  and  t'other  went 
ight  from  it.  That's  all  about  it.  Ask  this  man.  He 
leerd  it  all,  and  see  it  all,    He  knows." 

The  other  man  repeated,  «  That's  all  about  it." 

"  Was  the  lady  crying  ?  »  I  inquired. 

"  Devil  a  bit,"  returned  the  first  man.    «  Her  shoes  was  the 


374  BLEAK  HOUSE, 

worse,  and  her  clothes  was  the  worse,  but  she  warn't  —  not  as 
I  see." 

The  woman  sat  with  her  arms  crossed,  and  her  eyes  upon 
the  ground.  Her  husband  had  turned  his  seat  a  little,  so  as 
to  face  her ;  and  kept  his  hammer-like  hand  upon  the  table, 
as  if  it  were  in  readiness  to  execute  his  threat  if  she  diso- 
beyed him. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  my  asking  your  wile,  said 
I,  "  how  the  lady  looked  ?  " 

"Come,  then!"  he  gruffly  cried  to  her.  "You  hear  what 
she  says.    Cut  it  short,  and  tell  her." 

"  Bad,"  replied  the  woman.    "  Pale  and  exhausted.  Very 

bad." 

"  Did  she  speak  much  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  but  her  voice  was  hoarse." 

She  answered,  looking  all  the  while  at  her  husband  foj 

^  Was  she  faint  ?  "  said  I.    "  Did  she  eat  or  drink  here  ?  I 

"  Go  on  ! "  said  the  husband,  in  answer  to  her  look.  "  Tel* 
her  and  cut  it  short." 

«  She  had  a  little  water,  Miss,  and  Jenny  fetched  her  som< 
bread  and  tea.    But  she  hardly  touched  it."  1 

"  And  when  she  went  from  here  "  —  I  was  proceeding,  wh 
Jenny's  husband  impatiently  took  me  up. 

«  When  she  went  from  here,  she  went  right  away  Nor'a 
by  the  high  road.  Ask  on  the  road  if  you  doubt  me,  and  s 
if  it  warn't  so.    Now,  there's  the  end.    That's  all  about  it.", 

I  glanced  at  my  companion;  and  finding  that  he  haJ 
already  risen  and  was  ready  to  depart,  thanked  them  for  wha 
they  had  told  me,  and  took  my  leave.  The  woman  looked  ful 
at  Mr.  Bucket  as  he  went  out,  and  he  looked  full  at  her. 

"Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  said  to  me  as  we  walke< 
quickly  away.  "They've  got  her  Ladyship's  watch  amon 
'em.    That's  a  positive  fact." 

"  You  saw  it  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"Just  as  good  as  saw  it,"  he  returned.  "Else  why  shoul 
he  talk  about  his  <  twenty  minutes  past,'  and  about  his  havm 
no  watch  to  tell  the  time  by  ?  Twenty  minutes  !  He  do- 
usually  cut  his  time  so  fine  as  that.    If  he  comes  to  | 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


375 


hours,  it's  as  much  as  he  does.  Now,  you  see,  either  her 
Ladyship  gave  him  that  watch,  or  he  took  it.  I  think  she 
gave  it  him.  Now,  what  should  she  give  it  him  for  ?  What 
should  she  give  it  him  for  ?  " 

He  repeated  this  question  to  himself  several  times  as  we 
hurried  on  ;  appearing  to  balance  between  a  variety  of  answers 
that  arose  in  his  mind. 

"  If  time  could  be  spared/'  said  Mr.  Bucket  —  "  which  is  the 
only  thing  that  can't  be  spared  in  this  case  —  I  might  get  it 
out  of  that  woman  ;  but  it's  too  doubtful  a  chance  to  trust  to, 
under  present  circumstances.  They  are  up  to  keeping  a  close 
eye  upon  her,  and  any  fool  knows  that  a  poor  cretur  like  her, 
beaten  and  kicked  and  scarred  and  bruised  from  head  to  foot, 
will  stand  by  the  husband  that  ill  uses  her,  through  thick  and 
thin.  There's  something  kept  back.  It's  a  pity  but  what  we 
had  seen  the  other  woman." 

I  regretted  it  exceedingly ;  for  she  was  very  grateful,  and  I 
felt  sure  would  have  resisted  no  entreaty  of  mine. 

"  It's  possible,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  ponder- 
ing on  it,  "  that  her  Ladyship  sent  her  up  to  London  with  some 
word  for  you,  and  it's  possible  that  her  husband  got  the  watch 
to  let  her  go.  It  don't  come  out  altogether  so  plain  as  to 
please  me,  but  it's  on  the  cards.  Now,  I  don't  take  kindly 
to  laying  out  the  money  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet,  on 
these  Roughs,  and  I  don't  see  my  way  to  the  usefulness  of  it 
at  present.  No !  So  far,  our  road,  Miss  Summerson,  is 
for'ard  —  straight  ahead  —  and  keeping  everything  quiet !  " 

We  called  at  home  once  more,  that  I  might  send  a  hasty 
note  to  my  Guardian,  and  then  we  hurried  back  to  where  we 
had  left  the  carriage.  The  horses  were  brought, out  as  soon 
as  we  were  seen  coming,  and  we  were  on  the  road  again  in  a 
few  minutes. 

It  had  set  in  snowing  at  daybreak,  and  it  now  snowed  hard. 
The  air  was  so  thick  with  the  darkness  of  the  day  and  the 
density  of  the  fall,  that  we  could  see  but  a  very  little  way  in 
any  direction.  Although  it  was  extremely  cold,  the  snow  was 
but  partially  frozen,  and  it  churned  —  with  a  sound  as  if  it 
were  a  beach  of  small  shells  —  under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses, 
into  mire  and  water.    They  sometimes  slipped  and  floundered 


376 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


for  a  mile  together,  and  we  were  obliged  to  come  to  a  stand- 
still to  rest  them.  One  horse  fell  three  times  in  this  first 
stage,  and  trembled  so,  and  was  so  shaken,  that  the  driver  had 
to  dismount  from  his  saddle  and  lead  him  at  last. 

I  could  eat  nothing,  and  could  not  sleep ;  and  I  grew  so 
nervous  under  those  delays,  and  the  slow  pace  at  which  we 
travelled,  that  I  had  an  unreasonable  desire  upon  me  to  get 
out  and  walk.  Yielding  to  my  companion's  better  sense, 
however,  I  remained  where  I  was.  All  this  time,  kept  fresh 
by  a  certain  enjoyment  of  the  work  in  which  he  was  engaged, 
he  was  up  and  down  at  every  house  we  came  to ;  addressing 
people  whom  he  had  never  beheld  before,  as  old  acquaint- 
ances ;  running  in  to  warm  himself  at  every  fire  he  saw ; 
talking  and  drinking  and  shaking  hands  at  every  bar  and  tap;' 
friendly  with  every  wagoner,  wheelwright,  blacksmith,  and; 
toll-taker ;  yet  never  seeming  to  lose  time,  and  always  mount-; 
ing  to  the  box  again  with  his  watchful,  steady  face,  and  his! 
business-like  "  Get  on,  my  lad  ! " 

When  we  were  changing  horses  the  next  time,  he  came* 
from  the  stable  yard,  and  with  the  wet  snow  incrusted  upon1 
him,  and  dropping  off  him  —  plashing  and  crashing  through 
it  to  his  wet  knees,  as  he  had  been  doing  frequently  since  we, 
left  Saint  Albans  —  and  spoke  to  me  at  the  carriage  side. 

"  Keep  up  your  spirits.  It's  certainly  true  that  she  came; 
on  here,  Miss  Summerson.  There's  not  a  doubt  of  the  dressj 
by  this  time,  and  the  dress  has  been  seen  here." 

"  Still  on  foot  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Still  on  foot.  I  think  the  gentleman  you  mentioned  must' 
be  the  point  she's  aiming  at ;  and  yet  I  don't  like  his  living 
down  in  her  own  part  of  the  country,  neither." 

"  I  know  so  little,"  said  I.  "  There  may  be  some  one  else 
nearer  here,  of  whom  I  never  heard." 

"  That's  true.  But  whatever  you  do,  don't  you  fall  a-crying 
my  dear ;  and  don't  you  worry  yourself  no  more  than  you  can 
help.    Get  on,  my  lad  !  " 

The  sleet  fell  all  that  day  unceasingly,  a  -thick  mist  came 
on  early,  and  it  never  rose  or  lightened  for  a  moment.  Such 
roads  I  had  never  seen.  I  sometimes  feared  we  had  missed 
the  way  and  got  into  the  ploughed  grounds,  or  the  marshes. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


377 


If  I  ever  thought  of  the  time  I  had  been  out,  it  presented 
itself  as  an  indefinite  period  of  great  duration ;  and  I  seemed 
in  a  strange  way,  never  to  have  been  free  from  the  anxiety 
under  which  I  then  labored. 

As  we  advanced,  I  began  to  feel  misgivings  that  my  com- 
panion lost  confidence.  He  was  the  same  as  before  with  all 
the  roadside  people,  but  he  looked  graver  when  he  sat  by 
himself  on  the  box.  I  saw  his  finger  uneasily  going  across 
and  across  his  mouth,  during  the  whole  of  one  long  weary 
stage.  I  overheard  that  he  began  to  ask  the  drivers  of 
coaches  and  other  vehicles  coming  towards  us,  what  passengers 
they  had  seen  in  other  coaches  and  vehicles  that  were  in 
advance.  Their  replies  did  not  encourage  him.  He  always 
gave  me  a  reassuring  beck  of  his  finger,  and  lift  of  his  eye- 
lid as  he  got  upon  the  box  again ;  but  he  seemed  perplexed 
now,  when  he  said,  "  Get  on,  my  lad !  " 

At  last,  when  we  were  changing,  he  told  me  that  he  had 
lost  the  track  of  the  dress  so  long  that  he  began  to  be  sur- 
prised. It  was  nothing,  he  said,  to  lose  such  a  track  for  one 
while,  and  to  take  it  up  for  another  while,  and  so  on ;  but  it 
had  disappeared  here  in  an  unaccountable  manner,  and  we 
had  not  come  upon  it  since.  This  corroborated  the  appre- 
hensions I  had  formed,  when  he  began  to  look  at  direction- 
posts,  and  to  leave  the  carriage  at  cross  roads  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  a  time,  while  he  explored  them.  But,  I  was  not 
to  be  down-hearted,  he  told  me;  for  it  was  as  likely  as  not 
that  the  next  stage  might  set  us  right  again. 

The  next  stage,  however,  ended  as  that  one  ended ;  we  had 
no  new  clew.  There  was  a  spacious  inn  here,  solitary,  but  a 
comfortable  substantial  building,  and  as  we  drove  in  under  a 
large  gateway  before  I  knew  it,  where  a  landlady  and  her 
pretty  daughters  came  to  the  carriage  door,  entreating  me  to 
alight  and  refresh  myself  while  the  horses  were  making  ready, 
I  thought  it  would  be  uncharitable  to  refuse.  They  took  me 
up-stairs  to  a  warm  room,  and  left  me  there. 

It  was  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  I  remember,  looking  two 
ways.  On  one  side,  to  a  stable-yard  open  to  a  by-road,  where 
the  hostlers  were  unharnessing  the  splashed  and  tired  horses 
from  the  muddy  carriage  ;  and  beyond  that  to  the  by-road 


378 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


itself ,  across  which  the  sign  was  heavily  swinging ;  on  th 
other  side,  to  a  wood  of  dark  pine-trees.     Their  branche 
were  encumbered  with  snow,  and  it  silently  dropped  off  i 
wet  heaps  while  I  stood  at  the  window.    Night  was  setting 
in,  and  its  bleakness  was  enhanced  by  the  contrast  of  the 
pictured  fire  glowing  and  gleaming  in  the  window-pane.  As 
I  looked  among  the  stems  of  the  trees,  and  followed  the  dis- 
colored marks  in  the  snow  where  the  thaw  was  sinking  into  it 
and  undermining  it,  I  thought  of  the  motherly  face  brightly 
set  off  by  daughters  that  had  just  now  welcomed  me,  and  of 
my  mother  lying  down  in  such  a  wood  to  die. 

I  was  frightened  when  I  found  them  all  about  me,  but  I 
remembered  that  before  I  fainted  I  tried  very  hard  not  to  do 
it;  and  that  was  some  little  comfort.  They  cushioned  me  up,' 
on  a  large  sofa  by  the  fire;  and  then  the  comely  landlady' 
told  me  that  I  must  travel  no  further  to-night,  but  must  go  to> 
bed.  But  this  put  me  into  such  a  tremble  lest  they  should ; 
detain  me  there,  that  she  soon  recalled  her  words,  and  com-, 
promised  for  a  rest  of  half  an  hour. 

A  good  endearing  creature  she  was.  She  and  her  three 
fair  girls  all  so  busy  about  me.  I  was  to  take  hot  soup  and 
broiled  fowl,  while  Mr.  Bucket  dried  himself  and  dined  elsd[ 
where ;  but  I  could  not  do  it  when  a  snug  round  table  was! 
presently  spread  by  the  fireside,  though  I  was  very  unwilling 
to  disappoint  them.  However,  I  could  take  some  toast  andl 
some  hot  negus ;  and  as  I  really  enjoyed  that  refreshment,  itj 
made  some  recompense. 

Punctual  to  the  time,  at  the  half-hour's  end  the  carriage^ 
came  rumbling  under  the  gateway,  and  they  took  me  down, 
warmed,  refreshed,  comforted  by  kindness,  and  safe  (I  assured 
them)  not  to  faint  any  more.  After  I  had  got  in  and  had 
taken  a  grateful  leave  of  them  all,  the  youngest  daughter  —  a 
blooming  girl  of  nineteen,  who  was  to  be  the  first  married, 
they  had  told  me  —  got  upon  the  carriage  step,  reached  in, 
and  kissed  me.  I  have  never  seen  her,  from  that  hour,  but 
I  think  of  her  to  this  hour  as  my  friend. 

The  transparent  windows  with  the  fire  and  light,  looking  so 
bright  and  warm  from  the  cold  darkness  out  of  doors,  were 
soon  gone,  and  again  we  were  crushing  and  churning  the 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


379 


loose  snow.  We  went  on  with  toil  enough ;  but  the  dismal 
roads  were  not  much  worse  than  they  had  been,  and  the  stage 
was  only  nine  miles.  My  companion  smoking  on  the  box  —  I 
had  thought  at  the  last  inn  of  begging  him  to  do  so,  when  I 
saw  him  standing  at  a  great  fire  in  a  comfortable  cloud  of 
tobacco  —  was  as  vigilant  as  ever ;  and  as  quickly  down  and 
up  again,  when  we  came  to  any  human  abode  or  any  human 
creature.  He  had  lighted  his  little  dark  lantern,  which  seemed 
to  be  a  favorite  with  him,  for  we  had  lamps  to  the  carriage ;  and 
every  now  and  then  he  turned  it  upon  me,  to  see  that  I  was 
doing  well.  There  was  a  folding  window  to  the  carriage  head, 
but  I  never  closed  it,  for  it  seemed  like  shutting  out  hope. 

We  came  to  the  end  of  the  stage,  and  still  the  lost  trace 
was  not  recovered.  I  looked  at  him  anxiously  when  we 
stopped  to  change ;  but  I  knew  by  his  yet  graver  face  as  he 
stood  watching  the  hostlers,  that  he  had  heard  nothing.  Almost 
in  an  instant  afterwards,  as  I  leaned  back  in  my  seat,  he 
looked  in,  with  his  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand,  an  excited 
and  quite  different  man. 

"  W^hat  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  starting.    "  Is  she  here  ?  99 

"  No,  no.  Don't  deceive  yourself,  my  dear.  Nobody's 
here.    But  I've  got  it !  " 

The  crystallized  snow  was  in  his  eyelashes,  in  his  hair, 
lying  in  ridges  on  his  dress.  He  had  to  shake  it  from  his 
face,  and  get  his  breath,  before  he  spoke  to  me. 

"  Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he,  beating  his  finger  on 
the  apron,  "  don't  you  be  disappointed  at  what  I'm  a-going 
to  do.  You  know  me.  I'm  Inspector  Bucket,  and  you  can 
trust  me.  We've  come  a  long  way  ;  never  mind.  Four  horses 
out  there  for  the  next  stage  up !    Quick  !  " 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  yard,  and  a  man  came  runuing 
out  of  the  stables  to  know  "  if  he  meant  up  or  down  ?  " 

"  Up,  I  tell  you !    Up  !    Ain't  it  English  ?    Up  ! " 

"  Up?  "said  I,  astonished.  "To  London!  Are  we  going 
back  ?  " 

"  Miss  Summerson,"  he  answered,  "back.  Straight  back  as 
a  die  You  know  me.  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  follow  the  other, 
by  G  » 

"  The  other  ?  "  I  repeated.    "  Who  ?  99 


380 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"You  called  her  Jenny,  didn't  you?  I'll  follow  her. 
Bring  those  two  pair  out  here,  for  a  crown  a  man.  Wake  up, 
some  of  you !  " 

"You  will  not  desert  this  lady  we  are  in  search  of;  you 
will  not  abandon  her  on  such  a  night,  and  in  such  a  state  of 
mind  as  I  know  her  to  be  in  ! "  said  I,  in  an  agony,  and  grasp- 
ing his  hand. 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,  I  won't.  But  I'll  follow  the 
other.  Look  alive  here  with  them  horses.  Send  a  man  for'ard 
in  the  saddle  to  the  next  stage,  and  let  him  send  another 
for'ard  again,  and  order  four  on,  up,  right  through.  My 
darling,  don't  you  be  afraid  !  " 

These  orders,  and  the  way  in  which  he  ran  about  the  yard, 
urging  them,  caused  a  general  excitement  that  was  scarcely 
less  bewildering  to  me  than  the  sudden  change.  But,  in  the 
height  of  the  confusion,  a  mounted  man  galloped  away  to 
order  the  relays,  and  our  horses  were  put  to  with  great  speed. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  jumping  to  his  seat,  and 
looking  in  again  —  "  you'll  excuse  me  if  I'm  too  familiar  — 
don't  you  fret  and  worry  yourself  no  more  than  you  can  help. 
I  say  nothing  else  at  present ;  but  you  know  me,  my  dear ; 
now,  don't  you  ?  " 

I  endeavored  to  say  that  I  knew  he  was  far  more  capable 
than  I  of  deciding  what  we  ought  to  do ;  but  was  he  sure 
that  this  was  right  ?  Could  I  not  go  forward  by  myself  in 
search  of  —  I  grasped  his  hand  again  in  my  distress,  and 
whispered  it  to  him  — of  my  own  mother. 

"  My  dear,"  he  answered,  "  I  know,  I  know,  and  would  I 
put  you  wrong,  do  you  think  ?  Inspector  Bucket.  Now  you 
know  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

What  could  I  say  but  yes  ! 

"  Then  you  keep  up  as  good  a  heart  as  you  can,  and  you 
rely  upon  me  for  standing  by  you,  no  less  than  by  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  Baronet.    Now,  are  you  right  there  ?  " 

"All  right,  sir!" 

"  Off  she  goes,  then.    And  get  on,  my  lads  ! " 

We  were  again  upon  the  melancholy  road  by  which  we  had 
come  ;  tearing  up  the  miry  sleet  and  thawing  snow,  as  if  they 
were  torn  up  by  a  water-wheel. 


L 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


381 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  WINTRY  DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

Still  impassive,  as  behooves  its  breeding,  the  Dedlock  town 
house  carries  itself  as  usual  towards  the  street  of  dismal 
grandeur.  There  are  powdered  heads  from  time  to  time  in 
the  little  windows  of  the  hall,  looking  out  at  the  untaxed 
powder  falling  all  day  from  the  sky  ;  and,  in  the  same  con- 
servatory, there  is  peach  blossom  turning  itself  exotically  to 
the  great  hall  tire  from  the  nipping  weather  out  of  doors.  It 
is  given  out  that  my  Lady  has  gone  down  into  Lincolnshire, 
but  is  expected  to  return  presently. 

Rumor,  busy  overmuch,  however,  will  not  go  down  into 
Lincolnshire.  It  persists  in  flitting  and  chattering  about 
town.  It  knows  that  that  poor  unfortunate  man,  Sir  Leicester, 
has  been  sadly  used.  It  hears,  my  dear  child,  all  sorts  of 
shocking  things.  It  makes  the  world  of  five  miles  round, 
quite  merry.  Not  to  know  that  there  is  something  wrong  at 
the  Dedlocks'  is  to  augur  yourself  unknown.  One  of  the 
peachy-cheeked  charmers  with  the  skeleton  throats,  is  already 
apprised  of  all  the  principal  circumstances  that  will  come  out 
before  the  Lords,  on  Sir  Leicester's  application  for  a  bill  of 
divorce. 

At  Blaze  and  Sparkle's  the  jewellers,  and  at  Sheen  and 
Gloss's  the  mercers,  it  is  and  wrill  be  for  several  hours  the 
topic  of  the  age,  the  feature  of  the  century.  The  patronesses 
of  those  establishments,  albeit  so  loftily  inscrutable,  being  as 
nicely  weighed  and  measured  there  as  any  other  article 
of  the  stock-in-trade,  are  perfectly  understood  in  this  new 
fashion  by  the  rawest  hand  behind  the  counter.  "  Our  peo- 
ple, Mr.  Jones,"  said  Blaze  and  Sparkle  to  the  hand  in  question 
on  engaging  him,  "  our  people,  sir,  are  sheep  —  mere  sheep. 
Where  two  or  three  marked  ones  go,  all  the  rest  follow.  Keep 


382 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


those  two  or  three  in  your  eye,  Mr.  Jones,  and  you  have  the 
flock."  So,  likewise,  Sheen  and  Gloss  to  their  Jones,  in  refer- 
ence to  knowing  where  to  have  the  fashionable  people,  and 
how  to  bring  what  they  (Sheen  and  Gloss)  choose,  into  fashion. 
On  similar  unerring  principles,  Mr.  Sladdery  the  librarian, 
and  indeed  the  great  farmer  of  gorgeous  sheep,  admits  this 
very  day,  "  Why  yes,  sir,  there  certainly  are  reports  concerning 
Lady  Dedlock,  very  current  indeed  among  my  high  connection, 
sir.  You  see,  my  high  connection  must  talk  about  something, 
sir;  and  it's  only  to  get  a  subject  into  vogue  with  one  or  two 
ladies  I  could  name,  to  make  it  go  down  with  the  whole. 
Just  what  I  should  have  done  with  those  ladies,  sir,  in  the 
case  of  any  novelty  you  had  left  to  me  to  bring  in,  they  have 
done  of  themselves  in  this  case  through  knowing  Lady 
Dedlock,  and  being  perhaps  a  little  innocently  jealous  of  her 
too,  sir.  You'll  find,  sir,  that  this  topic  will  be  very  popular 
among  my  high  connection.  If  it  had  been  a  speculation,  sir, 
it  would  have  brought  money.  And  when  I  say  so,  you  may 
trust  to  my  being  right,  sir ;  for  I  have  made  it  my  business 
to  study  my  high  connection,  and  to  be  able  to  wind  it  up  like 
a  clock,  sir." 

Thus  rumor  thrives  in  the  capital,  and  will  not  go  down 
into  Lincolnshire.  By  half-past  five,  post  meridian,  Horse 
Guards'  time,  it  has  even  elicited  a  new  remark  from  the 
Honorable  Mr.  Stables,  which  bids  fair  to  outshine  the  old 
one,  on  which  he  has  so  long  rested  his  colloquial  reputation. 
This  sparkling  sally  is  to  the  effect  that,  although  he  always 
knew  she  was  the  best-groomed  woman  in  the  stud,  he  had 
no  idea  she  was  a  bolter.  It  is  immensely  received  in  turf- 
circles. 

At  feasts  and  festivals  also  :  in  firmaments  she  has  often 
graced,  and  among  constellations  she  outshone  but  yesterday, 
she  is  still  the  prevalent  subject.  "What  is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ? 
When  was  it  ?  Where  was  it  ?  How  was  it  ?  She  is  dis- 
cusssd  by  her  dear  friends  with  all  the  genteelest  slang  in 
vogue,  with  the  last  new  word,  the  last  new  manner,  the 
last  new  drawl,  and  the  perfection  of  polite  indifference.  A 
remarkable  feature  of  the  theme  is,  that  it  is  found  to  be 
so  inspiring  that  several-  people  come  out  upon  it  who  never 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


383 


came  out  before  —  positively  say  tilings  !  William  Buffy 
carries  one  of  these  smartnesses  from  the  place  where  he 
dines,  down  to  the  House,  where  the  Whip  for  his  party  hands 
it  about  with  his  snuff-box,  to  keep  men  together  who  want  to 
be  off,  with  such  effect  that  the  Speaker  (who  has  had  it 
privately  insinuated  into  his  own  ear  under  the  corner  of  his 
wig)  cries  "  Order  at  the  bar  ! "  three  times  without  making 
an  impression. 

And  not  the  least  amazing  circumstance  connected  with 
her  being  vaguely  the  town  talk,  is,  that  people  hovering 
on  the  confines  of  Mr.  Sladdery's  high  connection,  people 
who  know  nothing  and  ever  did  know  nothing  about  her, 
think  it  essential  to  their  reputation  to  pretend  that  she 
is  their  topic  too ;  and  to  retail  her  at  second-hand  with 
the  last  new  word  and  the  last  new  manner,  and  the  last 
new  drawl,  and  the  last  new  polite  indifference,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  all  at  second-hand  but  considered  equal  to  new, 
in  inferior  systems  and  to  fainter  stars.  If  there  be  any 
man  of  letters,  art,  or  science  among  these  little  dealers,  how 
noble  in  him  to  support  the  feeble  sisters  on  such  majestic 
crutches  ! 

So  goes  the  wintry  day  outside  the  Dedlock  mansion. 
How  within  it  ? 

Sir  Leicester  lying  in  his  bed  can  speak  a  little,  though 
with  difficulty  and  indistinctness.  He  is  enjoined  to  silence 
and  to  rest,  and  they  have  given  him  some  opiate  to  lull  his 
pain  ;  for  his  old  enemy  is  very  hard  with  him.  He  is  never 
asleep,  though  sometimes  he  seems  to  fall  into  a  dull  waking 
doze.  He  caused  his  bedstead  to  be  moved  out  nearer  to  the 
window,  when  he  heard  it  was  such  inclement  weather;  and 
his  head  to  be  so  adjusted,  that  he  could  see  the  driving 
snow  and  sleet.  He  watches  it  as  it  falls,  throughout  the 
whole  wintry  day. 

Upon  the  least  noise  in  the  house,  which  is  kept  hushed, 
his  hand  is  at  the  pencil.  The  old  housekeeper,  sitting  by 
him  knows  what  he  would  write,  and  whispers  "No,  he  has 
not  come  back  yet,  Sir  Leicester.  It  was  late  last  night 
when  he  went.    He  has  been  but  a  little  time  gone  yet." 

He  withdraws  his  hand,  and  falls  to  looking  at  the  sleet 


384 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


and  snow  again,  until  they  seem,  by  being  long  looked  at, 
to  fall  so  thick  and  fast,  that  he  is  obliged  to  close  his  eyes 
for  a  minute  on  the  giddy  whirl  of  white  flakes  and  icy 
blots. 

He  began  to  look  at  them  as  soon  as  it  was  light.  The 
day  is  not  yet  far  spent,  when  he  conceives  it  to  be  necessary 
that  her  rooms  should  be  prepared  for  her.  It  is  very  cold 
and  wet.  Let  there  be  good  fires.  Let  them  know  that  she 
is  expected.  Please  see  to  it  yourself.  He  writes  to  this 
purpose  on  his  slate,  and  Mrs.  Eouncewell  with  a  heavy 
heart  obeys. 

"  For  I  dread,  George/'  the  old  lady  says  to  her  son,  who 
waits  below  to  keep  her  company  when  she  has  a  little  leisure ; 
"  I  dread,  my  dear,  that  my  Lady  will  never  more  set  foot 
within  these  walls." 

"  That's  a  bad  presentiment,  mother." 

"Nor  yet  within  the  walls  of  Chesney  Wold,  my  dear." 

"  That's  worse.    But  why,  mother  !  " 

"  When  I  saw  my  Lady  yesterday,  George,  she  looked  to 
me  —  and  I  may  say  at  me  too  —  as  if  the  step  on  the  Ghost's 
Walk  had  almost  walked  her  down." 

"  Come,  come !  You  alarm  yourself  with  old-story  fears, 
mother." 

"  No  I  don't,  my  dear.  No  I  don't.  It's  going  on  for  sixty 
year  that  I  have  been  in  this  family,  and  I  never  had  any 
fears  for  it  before.  But  it's  breaking  up,  my  dear  ;  the  great 
old  Dedlock  family  is  breaking  up." 

"I  hope  not,  mother." 

"  I  am  thankful  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  be  with  Sir 
Leicester  in  this  illness  and  trouble ;  for  I  know  I  am  not 
too  old,  nor  too  useless,  to  be  a  welcomer  sight  to  him  than 
anybody  else  in  my  place  would  be.  But  the  step  on  the 
Ghost's  Walk  will  walk  my  Lady  down,  George ;  it  has  been 
many  a  day  behind  her,  and  now  it  will  pass  her,  and 
go  on." 

"  Well,  mother  dear,  I  say  again,  I  hope  not." 

"Ah,  so  do  I,  George,"  the  old  lady  returns,  shaking  her 
head,  and  parting  her  folded  hands.  "  But  if  my  fears  come 
true,  and  he  has  to  know  it,  who  will  tell  him  ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


385 


"  Are  these  her  rooms  ?  " 

"These  are  my  lady's  rooms,  just  as  she  left  them." 

"'Why  now/'  says  the  trooper,  glancing  round  him,  and 
speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "  I  begin  to  understand  how  you 
come  to  think  as  you  do  think,  mother.  Booms  get  an  awful 
look  about  them  when  they  are  fitted  up,  like  these,  for  one 
person  you  are  used  to  see  in  them,  and  that  person  is  away 
under  any  shadow  :  let  alone  being  God  knows  where." 

He  is  not  far  out.  As  all  partings  foreshadow  the  great 
final  one,  —  so,  empty  rooms,  bereft  of  a  familiar  presence, 
mournfully  whisper  what  your  room  and  what  mine  must  one 
day  be.  My  Lady's  state  has  a  hollow  look,  thus  gloomy  and 
abandoned  ;  and  in  the  inner  apartment,  where  Mr.  Bucket 
last  night  made  his  secret  perquisition,  the  traces  of  her 
dresses  and  her  ornaments,  even  the  mirrors  accustomed  to 
reflect  them  when  they  were  a  portion  of  herself,  have  a  deso- 
late and  vacant  air.  Dark  and  cold  as  the  wintry  day  is,  it  is 
darker  and  colder  in  these  deserted  chambers  than  in  many  a 
hut  that  will  barely  exclude  the  weather;  and  though  the 
servants  heap  fires  in  the  grates,  and  set  the  couches  and  the 
chairs  within  the  warm  glass  screens  that  let  their  ruddy 
light  shoot  through  to  the  furthest  corners,  there  is  a  heavy 
cloud  upon  the  rooms  which  no  light  will  dispel. 

The  old  housekeeper  and  her  son  remain  until  the  prepara- 
tions are  complete,  and  then  she  returns  up-stairs.  Volumnia 
has  taken  Mrs.  Bouncewell's  place  in  the  mean  time :  though 
pearl  necklaces  and  rouge  pots,  however  calculated  to  embellish 
Bath,  are  but  indifferent  comforts  to  the  invalid  under  present 
circumstances.  Volumnia  not  being  supposed  to  know  (and 
indeed  not  knowing)  what  is  the  matter,  has  found  it  a  ticklish 
task  to  offer  appropriate  observations ;  and  consequently  has 
supplied  their  place  with  distracting  smoothings  of  the  bed- 
linen,  elaborate  locomotion  on  tiptoe,  vigilant  peeping  at  her 
kinsman's  eyes,  and  one  exasperating  whisper  to  herself  of 
"  He  is  asleep."  In  disproof  of  which  superfluous  remark,  Sir 
Leicester  has  indignantly  written  on  the  slate,  "  I  am  not." 

Yielding,  therefore,  the  chair  at  the  bedside  to  the  quaint 
old  housekeeper,  Volumnia  sits  at  a  table  a  little  removed, 
sympathetically  sighing.    Sir  Leicester  watches  the  sleet  and 

VOL.  II. 


386 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


snow,  and  listens  for  the  returning  steps  that  he  expects..  In 
the  ears  of  his  old  servant,  looking  as  if  she  had  stepped  out 
of  an  old  picture-frame  to  attend  a  summoned  Dedlock  to 
another  world,  the  silence  is  fraught  with  echoes  of  her  own 
words,  "Who  will  tell  him  ! " 

He  has  been  under  his  valet's  hands  this  morning,  to  be 
made  presentable ;  and  is  as  well  got  up  as  the  circumstances 
will  allow.  He  is  propped  with  pillows,  his  gray  hair  is 
brushed  in  its  usual  manner,  his  linen  is  arranged  to  a  nicety, 
and  he  is  wrapped  in  a  responsible  dressing-gown.  His  eye- 
glass and  his  watch  are  ready  to  his  hand.  It  is  necessary  — 
less  to  his  own  dignity  now  perhaps,  than  for  her  sake  —  that 
he  should  be  seen  as  little  disturbed,  and  as  much  himself,  as 
may  be.  Women  will  talk,  and  Volumnia,  though  a  Dedlock, 
is  no  exceptional  case.  He  keeps  her  here,  there  is  little  f 
doubt, to  prevent  her  talking  somewhere  else.  He  is  very  ill; 
but  he  makes  his  present  stand  against  distress  of  mind  and  5 
body,  most  courageously. 

The  fair  Volumnia  being  one  of  those  sprightly  girls  who  i 
cannot  long  continue  silent  without  imminent  peril  of  seizure 
by  the  dragon  Boredom,  soon  indicates  the  approach  of  that 
monster  with  a  series  of  undisguisable  yawns.    Finding  it 
impossible  to  suppress  those  yawns  by  any  other  process  than  ; 
conversation,  she  compliments  Mrs.  Rouncewell  on  her  son;  i 
declaring  that  he  positively  is  one  of  the  finest  figures  she  J 
ever  saw,  and  as  soldierly  a  looking  person  she  should  think,  \ 
as  what's-his-name,  her  favorite  Life  Guardsman  —  the  man  J 
she  dotes  on — the  dearest  of  creatures  —  who  was  killed  at  i 
Waterloo. 

Sir  Leicester  hears  this  tribute  with  so  much  surprise,  and 
stares  about  him  in  such  a  confused  way,  that  Mrs.  Rounce- 
well feels  it  necessary  to  explain. 

"Miss  Dedlock  don't  speak  of  my  eldest  son,  Sir  Leicester, 
but  my  youngest.    I  have  found  him.    He  has  come  home." 

Sir  Leicester  breaks  silence  with  a  harsh  cry.  "  George  ? 
Your  son  George  come  home,  Mrs.  Rouncewell  ?" 

The  old  housekeeper  wipes  her  eyes.  "  Thank  God.  Yes, 
Sir  Leicester." 

Does  this  discovery  of  some  one  lost,  this  return  of  some 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


387 


one  so  long  gone,  come  upon  him  as  a  strong  confirmation  of 
his  hopes  ?  Does  he  think,  "  Shall  I  not,  with  the  aid  I  have, 
recall  her  safely  after  this ;  there  being  fewer  hours  in  her 
case  than  there  are  years  in  his  ?  " 

It  is  of  no  use  entreating  him ;  he  is  determined  to  speak 
now,  and  he  does.  In  a  thick  crowd  of  sounds,  but  still 
intelligibly  enough  to  be  understood. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me,  Mrs.  Eouncewell  ?" 

"  It  happened  only  yesterday,  Sir  Leicester,  and  I  doubted 
your  being  well  enough  to  be  talked  to  of  such  things." 

Besides,  the  giddy  Volumnia  now  remembers  with  her  little 
scream  that  nobody  was  to  have  known  of  his  being  Mrs. 
Eouncewell's  son,  and  that  she  was  not  to  have  told.  But 
Mrs.  Eouncewell  protests,  with  warmth  enough  to  swell  the 
stomacher,  that  of  course  she  would  have  told  Sir  Leicester  as 
soon  as  he  got  better. 

"Where  is  your  son  George,  Mrs.  Eouncewell  ? "  asks  Sir, 
Leicester. 

Mrs.  Eouncewell,  not  a  little  alarmed  by  his  disregard  of 
the  doctor's  injunctions,  replies,  in  London. 
"  Where  in  London  ?  " 

Mrs.  Eouncewell  is  constrained  to  admit  that  he  is  in  the 
house. 

"Bring  him  here  to  my  room.    Bring  him  directly." 

The  old  lady  can  do  nothing  but  go  in  search  of  him.  Sir 
Leicester,  with  such  power  of  movement  as  he  has,  arranges 
himself  a  little,  to  receive  him.  When  he  has  done  so,  he 
looks  out  again  at  the  falling  sleet  and  snow,  and  listens 
again  for  the  returning  steps.  A  quantity  of  straw  has  been 
tumbled  down  in  the  street  to  deaden  the  noises  there,  and  she 
might  be  driven  to  the  door  perhaps  without  his  hearing 
wheels. 

He  is  lying  thus,  apparently  forgetful  of  his  newer  and 
minor  surprise,  when  the  housekeeper  returns,  accompanied 
by  her  trooper  son.  Mr.  George  approaches  softly  to  the  bed- 
side, makes  his  bow,  squares  his  chest,  and  stands,  with  his 
face  flushed,  very  heartily  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  Good  Heaven,  and  it  is  really  George  Eouncewell ! 99 
exclaims  Sir  Leicester.    "  Do  you  remember  me,  George  ? 99 


388 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


The  trooper  needs  to  look  at  him,  and  to  separate  this 
sound  from  that  sound,  before  he  knows  what  he  has  said ; 
but  doing  this,  and  being  a  little  helped  by  his  mother,  he 

replies, — 

"  I  must  have  a  very  bad  memory,  indeed,  Sir  Leicester,  if 
I  failed  to  remember  you." 

"  When  I  look  at  you,  George  Kouncewell,"  Sir  Leicester 
observes  with  difficulty,  "  I  see  something  of  a  boy  at  Chesney 
Wold  —  I  remember  well  —  very  well." 

He  looks  at  the  trooper  until  tears  come  into  his  eyes,  and 
then  he  looks  at  the  sleet  and  snow  again. 

"I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir  Leicester,"  says  the  trooper,  "but 
would  you  accept  of  my  arms  to  raise  you  up.  You  would  lie 
easier,  Sir  Leicester,  if  you  would  allow  me  to  move  you." 

"  If  you  please,  George  Kouncewell ;  if  you  will  be  so  good."  » 

The  trooper  takes  him  in  his  arms  like  a  child,  lightly  ] 
raises  him,  and  turns  him  with  his  face  more  towards  the 
window.    "  Thank  you.    You  have  your  mother's  gentleness," 
returns  Sir  Leicester,  "and  your  own  strength.    Thank  you."  < 

He  signs  to  him  with  his  hand  not  to  go  away.  George  ! 
quietly  remains  at  the  bedside,  waiting  to  be  spoken  to. 

"  Why  did  you  wish  for  secrecy  ?  "  It  takes  Sir  Leicester  . 
some  time  to  ask  this. 

«  Truly  I  am  not  much  to  boast  of,  Sir  Leicester,  and  I  —  I  ■ 
should  still,  Sir  Leicester,  if  you  was  not  so  indisposed  —  j 
which  I  hope  you  will  not  be  long  — I  should  still  hope  for, 
the  favor  of  being  allowed  to  remain  unknown  in  general.  | 
That  involves  explanations  not  very  hard  to  be  guessed  at,  i 
not  very  well  timed  here,  and  not  very  creditable  to  myself 
However  opinions  may  differ  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  I  should 
think  it  would  be  universally  agreed,  Sir  Leicester,  that  I  am 
not  much  to  boast  of." 

"  You  have  been  a  soldier,"  observes  Sir  Leicester,  "  and  a 
faithful  one." 

George  makes  his  military  bow.  "  As  far  as  that  goes,  Si 
Leicester,  I  have  done  my  duty  under  discipline,  and  it  wa 
the  least  I  could  do." 

"You  find  me,"  says  Sir  Leicester,  whose  eyes  are  muc 
attracted  towards  him,  "  far  from  well,  George  Kouncewell." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


389 


"I  am  very  sorry  both  to  hear  it  and  to  see  it,  Sir 
Leicester." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are.  No.  In  addition  to  my  older  malady, 
I  have  had  a  sudden  and  bad  attack.  Something  that 
deadens  "  —  making  an  endeavor  to  pass  one  hand  down  one 
side ;  "and  confuses "  —  touching  his  lips. 

George,  with  a  look  of  assent  and  sympathy,  makes  another 
bow.  The  different  times  when  they  were  both  young  men 
(the  trooper  much  the  younger  of  the  two),  and  looked  at  one 
another  down  at  Chesney  Wold,  arise  before  them  both,  and 
soften  both. 

Sir  Leicester,  evidently  with  a  great  determination  to  say, 
in  his  own  manner,  something  that  is  on  his  mind  before 
relapsing  into  silence,  tries  to  raise  himself  among  his  pillows 
a  little  more.  George  observant  of  the  action,  takes  him  in 
his  arms  again  and  places  him  as  he  desires  to  be.  "  Thank 
you,  George.  You  are 'another  self  to  me.  You  have  often 
carried  my  spare  gun  at  Chesney  Wold,  George.  You  are 
familiar  to  me  in  these  strange  circumstances,  very  familiar." 
He  has  put  Sir  Leicester's  sounder  arm  over  his  shoulder  in 
lifting  him  up,  and  Sir  Leicester  is  slow  in  drawing  it  away 
again,  as  he  says  these  words. 

"  I  was  about  to  add  "  he  presently  goes  on,  "  I  was  about 
to  add,  respecting  this  attack,  that  it  was  unfortunately  simul- 
taneous with  a  slight  misunderstanding  between  my  Lady  and 
myself.  I  do  not  mean  that  there  was  any  difference  between 
us  (for  there  has  been  none),  but  that  there  was  a  misunder- 
standing of  certain  circumstances  important  only  to  ourselves, 
which  deprives  me,  for  a  little  while,  of  my  Lady's  society. 
She  has  found  it  necessary  to  make  a  journey,  —  I  trust  will 
shortly  return.  Volumnia,  do  I  make  myself  intelligible  ? 
The  words  are  not  quite  under  my  command,  in  the  manner 
of  pronouncing  them." 

Volumnia  understands  him  perfectly;  and  in  truth  he 
delivers  himself  with  far  greater  plainness  than  could  have 
been  supposed  possible  a  minute  ago.  The  effort  by  which  he 
does  so,  is  written  in  the  anxious  and  laboring  expression  of 
his  face.  Nothing  but  the  strength  of  his  purpose  enables 
him  to  make  it. 


390 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  Therefore,  Volumnia,  I  desire  to  say  in  your  presence  — 
and  in  the  presence  of  my  old  retainer  and  friend,  Mrs. 
Kouncewell,  whose  truth  and  fidelity  no  one  can  question  — 
and  in  the  presence  of  her  son  George,  who  comes  back  like 
a  familiar  recollection  of  my  youth  in  the  home  of  my  ancestors 
at  Chesney  Wold  —  in  case  I  should  relapse,  in  case  I  should 
not  recover,  in  case  I  should  lose  both  my  speech  and  the  power 
of  writing,  though  I  hope  for  better  things  "  — 

The  old  housekeeper  weeping  silently;  Volumnia  in  the 
greatest  agitation,  with  the  freshest  bloom  on  her  cheeks ;  the 
trooper  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  a  little  bent, 
respectfully  attentive. 

"Therefore  I  desire  to  say,  and  to  call  you  all  to  witness  — 
beginning,  Volumnia,  with  yourself,  most  solemnly  —  that  I  am  ' 
on  unaltered  terms  with  Lady  Dedlock.  That  I  assert  no 
cause  whatever  of  complaint  against  her.  That  I  have  ever: 
had  the  strongest  affection  for  her,  and  that  I  retain  it  undi- ! 
minished.  Say  this  to  herself,  and  to  every  one.  If  you  ever , 
say  less  than  this,  you  will  be  guilty  of  deliberate  falsehood  i 
to  me." 

Volumnia  tremblingly  protests  that  she  will  observe  his 
injunctions  to  the  letter. 

"My  Lady  is  too  high  in  position,  too  handsome,  too, 
accomplished,  too  superior  in  inost  respects  to  the  best  of  those  j 
by  whom  she  is  surrounded,  not  to  have  her  enemies  andj 
traducers,  I  dare  say.    Let  it  be  known  to  them,  as  I  make  it) 
known  to  you,  that  being  of  sound  mind,  memory,  and  under- 
standing, I  revoke  no  disposition  I  have  made  in  her  favor.  \ 
I  abridge  nothing  I  have  ever  bestowed  upon  her.    I  am  on 
unaltered  terms  with  her,  and  I  recall  —  having  the  full  power 
to  do  it  if  I  were  so  disposed,  as  you  see  —  no  act  I  have  done 
for  her  advantage  and  happiness." 

His  formal  array  of  words  might  have  at  any  other  time,  as 
it  has  often  had,  something  ludicrous  in  it ;  but  at  this  time 
it  is  serious  and  affecting.  His  noble  earnestness,  his  fidelity, 
his  gallant  shielding  of  her,  his  generous  conquest  of  his  own 
wrong  and  his  own  pride  for  her  sake,  are  simply  honorable, 
manly,  and  true.  Nothing  less  worthy  can  be  seen  through 
the  lustre  of  such  qualities  in  the  commonest  mechanic, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


391 


nothing  less  worthy  can  be  seen  in  the  best-born  gentleman. 
In  such  a  light  both  aspire  alike,  both  rise  alike,  both  children 
of  the  dust  shine  equally. 

Overpowered  by  his  exertions,  he  lays  his  head  back  on  his 
pillows,  and  closes  his  eyes ;  for  not  more  than  a  minute ; 
when  he  again  resumes  his  watching  of  the  weather,  and  his 
attention  to  the  muffled  sounds.  In  the  rendering  of  those 
little  services,  and  in  the  manner  of  their  acceptance,  the 
trooper  has  become  installed  as  necessary  to  him.  Nothing 
has  been  said,  but  it  is  quite  understood.  He  falls  a  step  or 
two  backward  to  be  out  of  sight,  and  mounts  guard  a  little 
behind  his  mother's  chair. 

The  day  is  now  beginning  to  decline.  The  mist,  and  the 
sleet  into  which  the  snow  has  all  resolved  itself,  are  darker, 
and  the  blaze  begins  to  tell  more  vividly  upon  the  room  walls 
and  furniture.  The  gloom  augments ;  the  bright  gas  springs 
up  in  the  streets ;  and  the  pertinacious  oil  lamps  which  yet 
hold  their  ground  there,  with  their  source  of  life  half  frozen 
and  half  thawed,  twinkle  gaspingly,  like  fiery  fish  out  of 
water  —  as  they  are.  The  world,  which  has  been  rumbling 
over  the  straw  and  pulling  at  the  bell  "  to  inquire,"  begins  to 
go  home,  begins  to  dress,  to  dine,  to  discuss  its  dear  friend, 
with  all  the  last  new  modes,  as  already  mentioned. 

Now,  does  Sir  Leicester  become  worse  ;  restless,  uneasy, 
and  in  great  pain.  Volumnia  lighting  a  candle  (with  a  pre- 
destined aptitude  for  doing  something  objectionable)  is  bidden 
to  put  it  out  again,  for  it  is  not  yet  dark  enough.  Yet  it  is 
very  dark  too ;  as  dark  as  it  wrill  be  all  night.  By  and  by 
she  tries  again.  No !  Put  it  out.  It  is  not  dark  enough 
yet. 

His  old  housekeeper  is  the  first  to  understand  that  he  is 
striving  to  uphold  the  fiction  with  himself  that  it  is  not 
growing  late. 

"Dear  Sir  Leicester,  my  honored  master,"  she  Softly 
whispers,  "  I  must,  for  your  own  good,  and  my  duty,  take  the 
freedom  of  begging  and  praying  that  you  will  not  lie  here  in 
the  lone  darkness,  watching  and  waiting,  and  dragging 
through  the  time.  Let  me  draw  the  curtains  and  light  the 
candles,  and  make  things  more  comfortable  about  you.  The 


392 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


church-clocks  will  strike  the  hours  just  the  same,  Sir  Leicester, 
and  the  night  will  pass  away  just  the  same.  My  Lady  will 
come  back,  just  the  same." 

"  I  know  it,  Mrs.  Eouncewell,  but  I  am  weak  —  and  he  has 
been  so  long  gone." 

"  Not  so  very  long,  Sir  Leicester  Not  twenty-four  hours 
yet." 

"  But  that  is  a  long  time.    0  it  is  a  long  time  ! " 

He  says  it  with  a  groan  that  wrings  her  heart. 

She  knows  that  this  is  not  a  period  for  bringing  the  rough 
light  upon  him ;  she  thinks  his  tears  too  sacred  to  be  seen, 
even  by  her.    Therefore,  she  sits  in  the  darkness  for  a  while, 
without  a  word ;  then  gently  begins  to  move  about ;  now 
stirring  the  fire,  now  standing  at  the  dark  window  looking 
out.    Finally  he  tells  her,  with  recovered  self-command,  " As\ 
you  say,  Mrs.  Eouncewell,  it  is  no  worse  for  being  confessed. 5 
It  is  getting  late,  and  they  are  not  come.    Light  the  room  !  " ' 
When  it  is  lighted,  and  the  weather  shut  out,  it  is  only  left  \ 
to  him  to  listen. 

But  they  find  that,  however  dejected  and  ill  he  is,  he 
brightens  when  a  quiet  pretence  is  made  of  looking  at  the ' 
fires  in  her  rooms,  and  being  sure  that  everything  is  ready  to 
receive  her.    Poor  pretence  as  it  is,  these  allusions  to  her' 
being  expected  to  keep  up  hope  within  him. 

Midnight  comes,  and  with  it  the  same  blank.    The  carriages  ] 
in  the  streets  are  few,  and  other  late  sounds  in  that  neighbor-  \ 
hood  there  are  none,  unless  a  man  so  very  nomad ically  drunk ; 
as  to  stray  into  the  frigid  zone  goes  brawling  and  bellowing ' 
along  the  pavement.    Upon  this  wintry  night  it  is  so  still, 
that  listening  to  the  intense  silence  is  like  looking  at  intense 
darkness.    If  any  distant  sound  be  audible  in  this  case,  it 
departs  through  the  gloom  like  a  feeble  light  in  that,  and  all 
is  heavier  than  before. 

The  corporation  of  servants  are  dismissed  to  bed  (not 
unwilling  to  go,  for  they  were  up  all  last  night),  and  only 
Mrs.  Eouncewell  and  George  keep  watch  in  Sir  Leicester's 
room.  As  the  night  lags  tardily  on  —  or  rather  when  it  seems 
to  stop  altogether,  at  between  two  and  three  o'clock  —  they 
find  a  restless  craving  on  him  to  know  more  about  the  weather, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


393 


now  he  cannot  see  it.  Hence  George,  patrolling  regularly 
every  half-hour  to  the  rooms  so  carefully  looked  after,  extends 
his  march  to  the  hall-door,  looks  about  him,  and  brings  back 
the  best  report  he  can  make  of  the  worst  of  nights  ;  the  sleet 
still  falling,  and  even  the  stone  footways  lying  ankle-deep  in 
icy  sludge. 

Volumnia,  in  her  room  up  a  retired  landing  on  the  staircase 

—  the  second  turning  past  the  end  of  the  carving  and  gilding 

—  a  cousinly  room  containing  a  fearful  abortion  of  a  portrait 
of  Sir  Leicester,  banished  for  its  crimes,  and  commanding  in 
the  day  a  solemn  yard,  planted  with  dried-up  shrubs  like  ante- 
diluvian specimens  of  black  tea  —  is  a  prey  to  horrors  of  many 
kinds.  Not  last  nor  least  among  them,  possibly,  is  a  horror  of 
what  may  befall  her  little  income,  in  the  event,  as  she  ex- 
presses it,  "  of  anything  happening  "  to  Sir  Leicester.  Any- 
thing, in  this  sense,  meaning  one  thing  only,  and  that  the 
last  thing  that  can  happen  to  the  consciousness  of  any  baronet 
in  the  known  world. 

An  effect  of  these  horrors  is,  that  Volumnia  finds  she 
cannot  go  to  bed  in  her  own  room,  or  sit  by  the  fire  in  her 
own  room,  but  must  come  forth  with  her  fair  head  tied  up  in 
a  profusion  of  shawl,  and  her  fair  form  enrobed  in  drapery, 
and  parade  the  mansion  like  a  ghost :  particularly  haunting 
the  rooms,  warm  and  luxurious,  prepared  for  one  who  still 
does  not  return.  Solitude  under  such  circumstances  being  not 
to  be  thought  of,  Volumnia  is  attended  by  her  maid,  who,  im- 
pressed from  her  own  bed  for  that  purpose,  extremely  cold, 
very  sleepy,  and  generally  an  injured  maid  as  condemned  by 
circumstances  to  take  office  with  a  cousin,  when  she  had 
resolved  to  be  maid  to  nothing  less  than  ten  thousand  a  year, 
has  not  a  sweet  expression  of  countenance. 

The  periodical  visits  of  the  trooper  to  these  rooms,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  his  patrolling,  is  an  assurance  of 
protection  and  company,  both  to  mistress  and  maid,  which 
renders  them  very  acceptable  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night. 
Whenever  he  is  heard  advancing,  they  both  make  some  little 
decorative  preparation  to  receive  him;  at  other  times,  they 
divide  their  watches  into  short  scraps  of  oblivion,  and  dia- 
logues not  wholly  free  from  acerbity,  as  to  whether  Miss 


394 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Dedlock,  sitting  with  her  feet  upon  the  fender,  was  or  was  j 
not  falling  into  the  fire  when  rescued  (to  her  great  dis-j 
pleasure)  by  her  guardian  genius  the  maid. 

"How  is  Sir  Leicester,  now,  Mr.  George?"  inquires  Vo-| 
lumnia,  adjusting  her  cowl  over  her  head. 

"Why,  Sir  Leicester  is  much  the  same,  miss.  He  is  very 
low  and  ill,  and  he  even  wanders  a  little  sometimes." 

"Has  he  asked  for  me  ?  "  inquires  Volumnia  tenderly. 

"  Why  no,  I  can't  say  he  has,  miss.  Not  within  my  hearing,! 
that  is  to  say." 

"  This  is  a  truly  sad  time,  Mr.  George." 

"  It  is  indeed,  miss.    Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"  You  had  a  deal  better  go  to  bed,  Miss  Dedlock,"  quoth 
the  maid  sharply. 

But  Volumnia  answers  No!  No!  She  may  be  asked  for; 
she  may  be  wanted  at  a  moment's  notice.  She  never  should 
forgive  herself  "  if  anything  was  to  happen  "  and  she  was  not 
on  the  spot.  She  declines  to  enter  on  the  question,  mooted 
by  the  maid,  how  the  spot  comes  to  be  there,  and  not  in  hej 
own  room  (which  is  nearer  to  Sir  Leicester's);  but  stanchlj 
declares  that  on  the  spot  she  will  remain.  Volumnia  further 
makes  a  merit  of  not  having  "closed  an  eye  "  —  as  if  she  had 
twenty  or  thirty  —  though  it  is  hard  to  reconcile  this  state; 
ment  with  her  having  most  indisputably  opened  two  withiij 
five  minutes. 

But  when  it  comes  to  four  o'clock,  and  still  the  sam<j 
blank,  Volumnia's  constancy  begins  to  fail  her,  or  rather  i| 
begins  to  strengthen;  for  she  now  considers  that  it  is  he} 
duty  to  be  ready  for  the  morrow,  when  much  may  be  ex 
pected  of  her ;  that,  in  fact,  howsoever  anxious  to  remair. 
upon  the  spot,  it  may  be  required  of  her,  as  an  act  of  self 
devotion,  to  desert  the  spot.  So,  when  the  trooper  reappear 
with  his  "  Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed,  miss  ?  "  and  whe 
the  maid  protests,  more  sharply  than  before,  "  You  had  a  dea 
better  go  to  bed,  Miss  Dedlock  !  "  she  meekly  rises  and  say 
"  Do  with  me  what  you  think  best !  " 

Mr.  George  undoubtedly  thinks  it  best  to  escort  her  o 
his  arm  to  the  door  of  her  cousinly  chamber,  and  the  maic| 
as  undoubtedly  thinks  it  best  to  hustle  her  into  bed  wit! 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


395 


mighty  little  ceremony.  Accordingly,  these  steps  are  taken ; 
and  now  the  trooper,  in  his  rounds,  has  the  house  to  himself. 

There  is  no  improvement  in  the  weather.  From  the  portico, 
from  the  eaves,  from  the  parapet,  from  every  ledge  and  post 
and  pillar,  drips  the  thawed  snow.  It  has  crept,  as  if  for 
shelter,  into  the  lintels  of  the  great  door  —  under  it,  into  the 
corners  of  the  windows,  into  every  chink  and  crevice  of 
retreat,  and  there  wastes  and  dies.  It  is  falling  still ;  upon 
the  roof,  upon  the  skylight;  even  through  the  skylight,  and 
drip,  drip,  drip,  with  the  regularity  of  the  Ghost's  Walk,  on 
the  stone  floor  below. 

The  trooper,  his  old  recollections  awakened  by  the  solitary 
grandeur  of  a  great  house — no  novelty  to  him  once  at 
Chesney  Wold  —  goes  up  the  stairs  and  through  the  chief 
rooms,  holding  up  his  light  at  arm's  length.  Thinking  of 
his  varied  fortunes  within  the  last  few  weeks,  and  of  his  rustic 
boyhood,  and  of  the  two  periods  of  his  life  so  strangely  brought 
together  across  the  wide  intermediate  space ;  thinking  of  the 
murdered  man  whose  image  is  fresh  in  his  mind ;  thinking  of 
the  lady  who  has  disappeared  from  these  very  rooms,  and 
the  tokens  of  whose  recent  presence  are  all  here  ;  thinking 
of  the  master  of  the  house  up-stairs,  and  of  the  foreboding 
"  Who  will  tell  him  ! "  he  looks  here  and  looks  there,  and 
reflects  how  he  might  see  something  now,  which  it  would  tax 
his  boldness  to  walk  up  to,  lay  his  hand  upon,  and  prove 
to  be  a  fancy.  But  it  is  all  blank ;  blank  as  the  darkness 
above  and  below,  while  he  goes  up  the  great  staircase  again ; 
blank  as  the  oppressive  silence. 

"All  is  still  in  readiness,  George  Rouncewell?" 

"  Quite  orderly  and  right,  Sir  Leicester." 

"  No  word  of  any  kind  ?  " 

The  trooper  shakes  his  head. 

"  No  letter  that  can  possibly  have  been  overlooked  ?  " 

But  he  knows  there  is  no  such  hope  as  that,  and  lays  his 
head  down  without  looking  for  an  answer. 

Very  familiar  to  him,  as  he  said  himself  some  hours  ago, 
George  Bouncewell  lifts  him  into  easier  positions  through  the 
long  remainder  of  the  blank  wintry  night ;  and,  equally 
familiar  with  his  unexpressed  wish,  extinguishes  the  light, 


396 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


and  undraws  the  curtains  at  the  first  late  break  of  day.  The 
day  conies  like  a  phantom.  Cold,  colorless,  and  vague,  it 
sends  a  warning  streak  before  it  of  a  death-like  hue,  as  if  it 
cried  out,  "  Look  what  I  am  bringing  you,  who  watch  there ! 
Who  will  tell  him  ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


397 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

Esther's  narrative. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  houses  out- 
side London  did  at  last  begin  to  exclude  the  country,  and  to 
close  us  in  with  streets.  We  had  made  our  way  along  roads 
in  a  far  worse  condition  than  when  we  had  traversed  them  by 
daylight,  both  the  fall  and  the  thaw  having  lasted  ever  since  ; 
but  the  energy  of  my  companion  had  never  slackened.  It 
had  only  been,  as  I  thought,  of  less  assistance  than  the  horses 
in  getting  us  on,  and  it  had  often  aided  them.  They  had 
stopped  exhausted  half  way  up  hills,  they  had  been  driven 
through  streams  of  turbulent  water,  they  had  slipped  down 
and  become  entangled  with  the  harness ;  but  he  and  his  little 
lantern  had  been  always  ready,  and  when  the  mishap  was  set 
right,  I  had  never  heard  any  variation  in  his  cool  "  Get  on, 
my  lads  ! " 

The  steadiness  and  confidence  with  which  he  had  directed 
our  journey  back,  I  could  not  account  for.  Never  wavering, 
he  never  even  stopped  to  make  an  inquiry  until  we  were 
within  a  few  miles  of  London.  A  very  few  words,  here  and 
there,  were  then  enough  for  him ;  and  thus  we  came,  at 
between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  into  Islington. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  suspense  and  anxiety  with  which  I 
reflected  all  this  time,  that  we  were  leaving  my  mother 
farther  and  farther  behind  every  minute.  I  think  I  had  some 
strong  hope  that  he  must  be  right,  and  could  not  fail  to  have 
a  satisfactory  object  in  following  this  woman ;  but  I  tormented 
myself  with  questioning  it,  and  discussing  it,  during  the 
whole  journey.  What  was  to  ensue  when  we  found  her, 
and  what  could  compensate  us  for  this  loss  of  time,  were 
questions  also  that  I  could  not  possibly  dismiss  ;  my  mind  was 
quite  tortured  by  long  dwelling  on  such  reflections,  when 
we  stopped. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


We  stopped  in  a  high  street,  where  there  was  a  coach- 
stand.  My  companion  paid  our  two  drivers,  who  were  as 
completely  covered  with  splashes  as  if  they  had  been  dragged 
along  the  roads  like  the  carriage  itself;  and  giving  them  some 
brief  direction  where  to  take  it,  lifted  me  out  of  it,  and  into  a 
hackney-coach  he  had  chosen  from  the  rest. 

"  Why,  my  dear !  "  he  said,  as  he  did  this.  "  How  wet  you 
are!" 

I  had  not  been  conscious  of  it.  But  the  melted  snow  had 
found  its  way  into  the  carriage ;  and  I  had  got  out  two  or 
three  times  when  a  fallen  horse  was  plunging  and  had  to  be 
got  up ;  and  the  wet  had  penetrated  my  dress.  I  assured 
him  it  was  no  matter ;  but  the  driver,  who  knew  him,  would 
not  be  dissuaded  by  me  from  running  down  the  street  to  his 
stable,  whence  he  brought  an  armful  of  clean  dry  straw. 
They  shook  it  out  and  strewed  it  well  about  me,  and  I  found 
it  warm  and  comfortable. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  with  his  head  in  at 
the  window  after  I  was  shut  up.  "  We're  a-going  to  mark  this 
person  down.  It  may  take  a  little  time,  but  you  don't  mind 
that.   You're  pretty  sure  that  I've  got  a  motive.    Ain't  you  ?  " 

I  little  thought  what  it  was  —  little  thought  in  how  short 
a  time  I  should  understand  it  better ;  but  I  assured  him  that 
I  had  confidence  in  him. 

"  So  you  may  have,  my  dear,"  he  returned.  "  And  I  tell  you 
what !  If  you  only  repose  half  as  much  confidence  in  me  as  I 
repose  in  you,  after  what  I've  experienced  of  you,  that'll  do. 
Lord  !  you're  no  trouble  at  all.  I  never  see  a  young  woman 
in  any  station  or  society  —  and  I've  seen  many  elevated  ones 
too  —  conduct  herself  like  you  have  conducted  yourself,  since 
you  was  called  out  of  your  bed.  You're  a  pattern,  you  know, 
that's  what  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  warmly ;  "  you're  a 
pattern." 

I  told  him  I  was  very  glad,  as  indeed  I  was,  to  have  been 
no  hindrance  to  him  ;  and  that  I  hoped  I  should  be  none  now. 

"My  dear,"  he  returned,  "when  a  young  lady  is  as  mild  as 
she's  game,  and  as  game  as  she's  mild,  that's  all  I  ask,  and 
more  than  I  expect.  She  then  becomes  a  Queen,  and  that's 
about  what  you  are  yourself." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


399 


With  these  encouraging  words — they  really  were  encour- 
aging to  me  under  those  lonely  and  anxious  circumstances  — 
he  got  upon  the  box,  and  we  once  more  drove  away.  Where 
we  drove,  I  neither  knew  then,  nor  have  ever  known  since ; 
but  we  appeared  to  seek  out  the  narrowest  and  worst  streets 
in  London.  Whenever  I  saw  him  directing  the  driver,  I  was 
prepared  for  our  descending  into  a  deeper  complication  of  such 
streets,  and  we  never  failed  to  do  so. 

Sometimes  we  emerged  upon  a  wider  thoroughfare,  or  came 
to  a  larger  building  than  the  generality,  well  lighted.  Then 
we  stopped  at  offices  like  those  we  had  visited  when  we  began 
our  journey,  and  I  saw  him  in  consultation  with  others. 
Sometimes  he  would  get  down  by  an  archway,  or  at  a  street 
corner,  and  mysteriously  show  the  light  of  his  little  lantern. 
This  would  attract  similar  lights  from  various  dark  quarters, 
like  so  many  insects  and  a  fresh  consultation  would  be  held. 
By  degrees  we  appeared  to  contract  our  search  within  nar- 
rower and  easier  limits.  Single  police  officers  on  duty  could 
now  tell  Mr.  Bucket  what  he  wanted  to  know,  and  point  to 
him  where  to  go.  At  last  we  stopped  for  a  rather  long 
conversation  between  him  and  one  of  these  men,  which  I 
supposed  to  be  satisfactory  from  his  manner  of  nodding  from 
time  to  time.  When  it  was  finished  he  came  to  me,  looking 
very  busy  and  very  attentive. 

"Now,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  said  to  me,  "you  won't  be 
alarmed  whatever  comes  off,  I  know.  It's  not  necessary  for 
me  to  give  you  any  further  caution,  than  to  tell  you  that  we 
have  marked  this  person  down,  and  that  you  may  be  of  use  to 
me  before  I  know  it  myself.  I  don't  like  to  ask  such  a  thing, 
my  dear,  but  would  you  walk  a  little  way  ?  " 

Of  course  I  got  out  directly,  and  took  his  arm. 

"It  ain't  so  easy  to  keep  your  feet,"  said  Mr.  Bucket;  "but 
take  time." 

Although  I  looked  about  me  confusedly  and  hurriedly,  as 
we  crossed  a  street,  I  thought  I  knew  the  place.  "  Are  we  in 
Holborn  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bucket.    "  Do  you  know  this  turning  ?  " 

"It  looks  like  Chancery  Lane." 

"  And  was  christened  so,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bucket. 


400 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


We  turned  down  it;  and  as  we  went,  shuffling  through 
the  sleet,  I  heard  the  clocks  strike  half-past  five.  We  passed 
on  in  silence,  and  as  quickly  as  we  could  with  such  a  foot- 
hold; when  some  one  coming  towards  us  on  the  narrow 
pavement,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  stopped  and  stood  aside  to 
give  me  room.  In  the  same  moment  I  heard  an  exclamation 
of  wonder,  and  my  own  name,  from  Mr.  Woodcourt.  I  knew 
his  voice  very  well. 

It  was  so  unexpected,  and  so  —  I  don't  know  what  to  call 
it,  whether  pleasant  or  painful  —  to  come  upon  it  after  my 
feverish  wandering  journey,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  night, 
that  I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  from  my  eyes.  It  was 
like  hearing  his  voice  in  a  strange  country. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Summerson,  that  you  should  be  out  at  this 
hour,  and  in  such  weather  !  " 

He  had  heard  from  my  Guardian  of  my  having  been  called 
away  on  some  uncommon  business,  and  said  so  to  dispense 
with  any  explanation.  I  told  him  that  we  had  but  just  left 
a  coach,  and  were  going  —  but  then  I  was  obliged  to  look  at 
my  companion. 

«  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Woodcourt ; "  he  had  caught  the  name 
from  me  ;  "  we  are  a-going  at  present  into  the  next  street.  — 
Inspector  Bucket." 

Mr.  Woodcourt,  disregarding  my  remonstrances,  had  hur- 
riedly taken  off  his  cloak,  and  was  putting  it  about  me. 
"That's  a  good  move,  too,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  assisting,  "a 
very  good  move." 

"  May  I  go  with  you  ? "  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  I  don't 
know  whether  to  me  or  my  companion. 

«  Why,  lord  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bucket,  taking  the  answer  on 
himself.    "  Of  course  you  may." 

It  was  all  said  in  a  moment,  and  they  took  me  between 
them,  wrapped  in  the  cloak. 

"  I  have  just  left  Richard,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt.  "  I  have 
been  sitting  with  him  since  ten  o'clock  last  night." 

"  0  dear  me,  he  is  ill !  " 

"No,  no,  believe  me;  not  ill,  but  not  quite  well.  He 
was  depressed  and  faint  —  you  know  he  gets  so  worried  and 
so  worn  sometimes  —  and  Ada  sent  to  me  of  course  ;  and  when 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


401 


I  came  home  I  found  her  note,  and  came  straight  here.  Well ! 
Kichard  revived  so  much  after  a  little  while,  and  Ada  was  so 
happy,  and  so  convinced  of  its  being  my  doing,  though  God 
knows  I  had  little  enough  to  do  with  it,  that  I  remained  with 
him  until  he  had  been  fast  asleep  some  hours.  As  fast  asleep 
as  she  is  now,  I  hope  ! " 

His  friendly  and  familiar  way  of  speaking  of  them,  his 
unaffected  devotion  to  them,  the  grateful  confidence  with 
which  I  knew  he  had  inspired  my  darling,  and  the  comfort 
he  was  to  her ;  could  I  separate  all  this  from  his  promise  to 
me  ?  How  thankless  I  must  have  been  if  it  had  not  recalled 
the  words  he  said  to  me,  when  he  was  so  moved  by  the  change 
in  my  appearance :  "  I  will  accept  him  as  a  trust,  and  it  shall 
be  a  sacred  one ! 99 

We  now  turned  into  another  narrow  street.  "Mr.  Wood- 
court,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  who  had  eyed  him  closely  as  we 
came  along,  "  our  business  takes  us  to  a  law-stationer's  here ; 
a  certain  Mr.  Snagsby's.  What,  you  know  him,  do  you  ? " 
He  was  so  quick  that  he  saw  it  in  an  instant. 

"  Yes,  I  know  a  little  of  him,  and  have  called  upon  him  at 
this  place." 

"  Indeed,  sir  ?  99  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Then  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  let  me  leave  Miss  Summerson  with  you  for  a 
moment,  while  I  go  and  have  half  a  word  with  him  ?  " 

The  last  police  officer  with  whom  he  had  conferred  was 
standing  silently  behind  us.  I  was  not  aware  of  it  until  he 
struck  in,  on  my  saying  I  heard  some  one  crying. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  miss,"  he  returned.  "  It's  Snagsby's 
servant." 

" Why,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  "the  girl's  subject  to 
fits,  and  has  'em  bad  upon  her  to-night.  A  most  contrairy 
circumstance  it  is,  for  I  want  certain  information  out  of  that 
girl,  and  she  must  be  brought  to  reason  somehow." 

"  At  all  events,  they  wouldn't  be  up  yet,  if  it  wasn't  for 
her,  Mr.  Bucket,"  said  the  other  man.  "She's  been  at  it 
pretty  well  all  night,  sir." 

"  Well,  that's  true,"  he  returned.  "  My  light's  burnt  out. 
Show  yours  a  moment." 

All  this  passed  in  a  whisper,  a  door  or  two  from  the  house 

VOL.  II. 


402 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


in  which  I  could  faintly  hear  crying  and  moaning.  In  the 
little  round  of  light  produced  for  the  purpose,  Mr.  Bucket 
went  up  to  the  door  and  knocked.  The  door  was  opened, 
after  he  had  knocked  twice;  and  he  went  in,  leaving  us 
standing  in  the  street. 

"Miss  Suminerson,"  said  Mr.  Woodcourt;  "if,  without  ob- 
truding myself  on  your  confidence,  I  may  remain  near  you, 
pray  let  me  do  so." 

"You  are  truly  kind,"  I  answered.  "I  need  wish  to 
keep  no  secret  of  my  own  from  you;  if  I  keep  any  it  is 
another's." 

"I  quite  understand.  Trust  me,  I  will  remain  near  you 
only  so  long  as  I  can  fully  respect  it." 

"  I  trust  implicitly  to  you,"  I  said.  "  I  know  and  deeply 
feel  how  sacredly  you  keep  your  promise." 

After  a  short  time  the  little  round  of  light  shone  out  again, 
and  Mr.  Bucket  advanced  towards  us  in  it  with  his  earnest 
face.  "Please  come  in,  Miss  Summerson,"  he  said,  "and 
sit  down  by  the  fire.  Mr.  Woodcourt,  from  information  I 
have  received  I  understand  you  are  a  medical  man.  Would 
you  look  to  this  girl  and  see  if  anything  can  be  done  to  bring 
her  round.  She  has  a  letter  somewhere  that  I  particularly 
want.  It's  not  in  her  box,  and  I  think  it  must  be  about  her ; 
but  she  is  so  twisted  and  clinched  up,  that  she  is  difficult  to 
handle  without  hurting." 

We  all  three  went  into  the  house  together ;  although  it  was 
cold  and  raw,  it  smelt  close  too  from  being  up  all  night.  In 
the  passage,  behind  the  door,  stood  a  scared,  sorrowful-looking 
little  man  in  a  gray  coat,  who  seemed  to  have  a  naturally 
polite  manner,  and  spoke  meekly. 

"  Down-stairs,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bucket,"  said  he.  "  The 
lady  will  excuse  the  front  kitchen ;  we  use  it  as  our  workaday 
sitting-room.  The  back  is  Guster's  bedroom,  and  in  it  she's 
a-carrying  on,  poor  thing,  to  a  frightful  extent ! " 

We  went  down-stairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Snagsby,  as  I  soon 
found  the  little  man  to  be.  In  the  front  kitchen,  sitting  by 
the  fire,  was  Mrs.  Snagsby,  with  very  red  eyes  and  a  very 
severe  expression  of  face. 

"My  little  woman,"  said  Mr.  Snagsby,  entering  behind  us, 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


403 


"to  wave  —  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  my  dear  — 
hostilities,  for  one  single  moment,  in  the  course  of  this  pro- 
longed night,  here  is  Inspector  Bucket,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  and  a 
lady." 

She  looked  very  much  astonished,  as  she  had  reason  for 
doing,  and  looked  particularly  hard  at  me. 

"  My  little  woman/'  said  Mr.  Snagsby,  sitting  down  in  the 
remotest  corner  by  the  door,  as  if  he  were  taking  a  liberty, 
"it  is  not  unlikely  that  you  may  inquire  of  me  why  Inspector 
Bucket,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  and  a  lady,  call  upon  us  in  Cook's 
Court,  Cursitor  Street,  at  the  present  hour.  I  don't  know.  I 
have  not  the  least  idea.  If  I  was  to  be  informed,  I  should 
despair  of  understanding,  and  I'd  rather  not  be  told." 

He  appeared  so  miserable,  sitting  with  his  head  upon  his 
hand,  and  I  appeared  so  unwelcome,  that  I  was  going  to  offer 
an  apology,  when  Mr.  Bucket  took  the  matter  on  himself. 

"Now,  Mr.  Snagsby,"  said  he,  "the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is 
to  go  along  with  Mr.  Woodcourt  to  look  after  your  Guster"  — 

"  My  Guster,  Mr.  Bucket ! "  cried  Mr.  Snagsby.  "  Go  on, 
sir,  go  on.    I  shall  be  charged  with  that  next." 

"And  to  hold  the  candle,"  pursued  Mr.  Bucket  without  cor- 
recting himself,  "  or  hold  her,  or  make  yourself  useful  in  any 
way  you're  asked.  Which  there's  not  a  man  alive  more  ready 
to  do ;  for  you're  a  man  of  urbanity  and  suavity,  you  know, 
and  you've  got  the  sort  of  heart  that  can  feel  for  another. 
(Mr.  Woodcourt,  would  you  be  so  good  as  to  see  to  her,  and  if 
you  can  get  that  letter  from  her,  to  let  me  have  it  as  soon  as 
ever  you  can  ?)  " 

As  they  went  out,  Mr.  Bucket  made  me  sit  down  in  a  corner 
by  the  fire,  and  take  off  my  wet  shoes,  which  he  turned  up  to 
dry  upon  the  fender ;  talking  all  the  time. 

"Don't  you  be  at  all  put  out,  miss,  by  the  want  of  a  hos- 
pitable look  from  Mrs.  Snagsby  there,  because  she's  under  a 
mistake  altogether.  She'll  find  that  out,  sooner  than  will  be 
.agreeable  to  a  lady  of  her  generally  correct  manner  of  form- 
ing her  thoughts,  because  I'm  a-going  to  explain  it  to  her." 
Here,  standing  on  the  hearth  with  his  wet  hat  and  shawls  in 
his  hand,  himself  a  pile  of  wet,  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Snagsby. 
"Now  the  first  thing  that  I  say  to  you,  as  a  married  woman, 


404 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


possessing  what  you  may  call  charms,  you  know  — 6  Believe 
me,  if  all  those  endearing,  and  cetrer' —  you're  well  acquainted 
with  the  song,  because  it's  in  vain  for  you  to  tell  me  that  you 
and  good  society  are  strangers  —  charms  —  attractions,  mind  j 
you,  that  ought  to  give  you  confidence  in  yourself  —  is,  that 
you've  done  it." 

Mrs.  Snagsby  looked  rather  alarmed,  relented  a  little,  and 
faltered,  what  did  Mr.  Bucket  mean  ? 

"  What  does  Mr.  Bucket  mean  ?  "  he  repeated ;  and  I  saw, 
by  his  face,  that  all  the  time  he  talked  he  was  listening  for 
the  discovery  of  the  letter  —  to  my  own  great  agitation ;  for  I 
knew  then  how  important  it  must  be ;  "  I'll  tell  you  what  he 
means,  ma'am.  Go  and  see  Othello  acted.  That's  the  tragedy 
for  you." 

Mrs.  Snagsby  consciously  asked  why. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  Because  you'll  come  to  that: 
if  you  don't  look  out.  Why,  at  the  very  moment  while  I  speak/ 
I  know  what  your  mind's  not  wholly  free  from,  respecting  thisj 
young  lady.  But  shall  I  tell  you  who  this  young  lady  is  ?i\ 
Now,  come,  you're  what  I  call  an  intellectual  woman  —  with' 
your  soul  too  large  for  your  body,  if  you  come  to  that,  and 
chafing  it  —  and  you  know  me,  and  you  recollect  where  yoa 
saw  me  last,  and  what  was  talked  of  in  that  circle.  Don't, 
you  ?   Yes  !   Very  well.   This  young  lady  is  that  young  lady."( 

Mrs.  Snagsby  appeared  to  understand  the  reference  better) 
than  I  did  at  the  time. 

"  And  Toughey  —  him  as  you  call  Jo  —  was  mixed  up  in  the 
same  business,  and  no  other ;  and  the  law-writer  that  you  knoW 
of,  was  mixed  up  in  the  same  business,  and  no  other ;  and  your 
husband,  with  no  more  knowledge  of  it  than  your  great  grand- 
father, was  mixed  up  (by  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  deceased,  his  best 
customer)  in  the  same  business,  and  no  other ;  and  the  whole 
bileing  of  people  was  mixed  up  in  the  same  business,  and  no 
other.  And  yet  a  married  woman,  possessing  your  attractions, 
shuts  her  eyes  (and  sparklers  too),  and  goes  and  runs  her  deli- 
cate-formed head  against  a  wall.  Why,  I  am  ashamed  of  you ! 
(I  expected  Mr.  Woodcourt  might  have  got  it,  by  this  time.) " 

.  Mrs.  Snagsby  shook  her  head,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes. 


BLEAK  HOUSE.  405 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  excitedly.  " No.  See 
what  happens.  Another  person  mixed  up  in  that  business  and 
no  other,  a  person  in  a  wretched  state,  comes  here  to  night, 
and  is  seen  a-speaking  to  your  maid-servant ;  and  between  her 
and  your  maid-servant  there  passes  a  paper  that  I  would  give 
a  hundred  pound  for,  down.  What  do  you  do  ?  You  hide  and 
you  watch  'em,  and  you  pounce  upon  that  maid-servant  — 
knowing  what  she's  subject  to,  and  what  a  little  thing  will 
bring  'em  on  —  in  that  surprising  manner,  and  with  that  sever- 
ity, that  by  the  Lord,  she  goes  off  and  keeps  off,  when  a  Life 
may  be  hanging  upon  that  girl's  words  ! " 

He  so  thoroughly  meant  what  he  said  now,  that  I  involun- 
tarily clasped  my  hands,  and  felt  the  room  turning  away  from 
me.  But  it  stopped.  Mr.  Woodcourt  came  in,  put  a  paper 
into  his  hand,  and  went  away  again. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Snagsby,  the  only  amends  you  can  make,"  said 
Mr.  Bucket,  rapidly  glancing  at  it,  "is  to  let  me  speak  a  word 
to  this  young  lady  in  private  here.  And  if  you  know  of  any 
help  that  you  can  give  to  that  gentleman  in  the  next  kitchen 
there,  or  can  think  of  any  one  thing  that's  likelier  than  another 
to  bring  the  girl  round,  do  your  swiftest  and  best ! "  In  an 
instant  she  was  gone,  and  he  had  shut  the  door.  "Now,  my 
dear,  you're  steady,  and  quite  sure  of  yourself  ?  " 

"Quite,"  said  L 

"Whose  writing  is  that  ?  " 

It  was  my  mother's.  A  pencil-writing,  on  a  crushed  and 
torn  piece  of  paper,  blotted  with  wet.  Folded  roughly  like  a 
letter,  and  directed  to  me,  at  my  Guardian's. 

"  You  know  the  hand,"  he  said ;  "  and  if  you  are  firm  enough 
to  read  it  to  me,  do !    But  be  particular  to  a  word." 

It  had  been  written  in  portions,  at  different  times.  I  read 
what  follows :  — 

"I  came  to  the  cottage  with  two  objects.  First,  to  see  the  dear  one, 
if  I  could,  once  more  —  but  only  to  see  her  —  not  to  speak  to  her,  or  let 
her  know  that  I  was  near.  The  other  object,  to  elude  pursuit,  and  to  be 
lost.  Do  not  blame  the  mother  for  her  share.  The  assistance  that  she 
rendered  me,  she  rendered  on  my  strongest  assurance  that  it  was  for  the 
dear  one's  good.  You  remember  her  dead  child.  The  men's  consent  I 
bought,  but  her  help  was  freely  given. " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"'1  came.'  That  was  written/'  said  my  companion,  "when 
she  rested  there.  It  bears  out  what  I  made  of  it.  I  was 
right." 

The  next  was  written  at  another  time. 

"I  have  wandered  a  long  distance,  and  for  many  hours,  and  I  know- 
that  I  must  soon  die.  These  streets!  I  have  no  purpose  but  to  die.  When 
I  left,  I  had  a  worse;  but  I  am  saved  from  adding  that  guilt  to  the  rest. 
Cold,  wet,  and  fatigue,  are  sufficient  causes  for  my  being  found  dead:  but 
I  shall  die  of  others,  though  I  suffer  from  these.  It  was  right  that  all 
that  had  sustained  me  should  give  way  at  once,  and  that  I  should  die  of 
terror  and  my  conscience. " 

"  Take  courage/'  said  Mr.  Bucket.  "  There's  only  a  few 
words  more." 

Those,  too,  were  written  at  another  time.  To  all  appearance, 1 
almost  in  the  dark. 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  be  lost.    I  shall  be  soon  forgotten  so,  and 
shall  disgrace  him  least.    I  have  nothing  about  me  by  which  I  can  be 
recognized.    This  paper  I  part  with  now.    The  place  where  I  shall  lie 
down,  if  I  can  yet  get  so  far,  has  been  often  in  my  mind.    Farewell,  j 
Forgive.' ' 

Mr.  Bucket,  supporting  me  with  his  arm,  lowered  me  gently 
into  my  chair.  "Cheer  up!  Don't  think  me  hard  with  you,, 
my  dear,  but,  as  soon  as  ever  you  feel  equal  to  it,  get  your ; 
shoes  on  and  be  ready." 

I  did  as  he  required ;  but  I  was  left  there  a  long  time,  j 
praying  for  my  unhappy  mother.     They  were  all  occupied' 
with  the  poor  girl,  and*I  heard  Mr.  Woodcourt  directing  them/ 
and  speaking  to  her  often.    At  length  he  came  in  with  Mr.  I 
Bucket;  and  said  that  as  it  was  important  to  address  her 
gently,  he  thought  it  best  that  I  should  ask  her  for  whatever 
information  we  desired  to  obtain.    There  was  no  doubt  that 
she  could  now  reply  to  questions,  if  she  were  soothed,  and  not 
alarmed.    The  questions,  Mr.  Bucket  said,  were  how  she  came 
by  the  letter,  what  passed  between  her  and  the  person  who 
gave  her  the  letter,  and  where  the  person  went.    Holding  my 
mind  as  steadily  as  I  could  to  these  points,  T  went  into  the 
next  room  with  them.    Mr.  Woodcourt  would  have  remained 
outside,  but  at  my  solicitation  went  in  with  us. 

The  poor  girl  was  sitting  on  the  floor  where  they  had  laid 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


407 


her  down.  They  stood  around  her  though  at  a  little  distance, 
that  she  might  have  air.  She  was  not  pretty,  and  looked  weak 
and  poor ;  but  she  had  a  plaintive  and  a  good  face,  though  it 
was  still  a  little  wild.  I  kneeled  on  the  ground  beside  her, 
and  put  her  poor  head  on  my  shoulder ;  whereupon  she  drew 
her  arm  round  my  neck,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  poor  girl,"  said  I,  laying  my  face  against  her  forehead ; 
for  indeed  I  was  crying  too,  and  trembling ;  "  it  seems  cruel 
to  trouble  you  now,  but  more  depends  on  our  knowing  some- 
thing about  this  letter,  than  I  could  tell  you  in  an  hour." 

She  began  piteously  declaring  that  she  didn't  mean  any 
harm,  she  didn't  mean  and  harm,  Mrs.  Snagsby. 

"  We  are  all  sure  of  that,"  said  I.  "  But  pray  tell  me  how 
you  got  it." 

"Yes,  dear  lady,  I  will,  and  tell  you  true.  I'll  tell  true, 
indeed,  Mrs.  Snagsby." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  I.    "  And  how  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  been  out  on  an  errand,  dear  lady  —  long  after  it  was 
dark  —  quite  late  ;  and  when  I  came  home,  I  found  a  common- 
looking  person,  all  wet  and  muddy,  looking  up  at  our  house. 
"When  she  saw  me  coming  in  at  the  door,  she  called  me  back, 
and  said  did  I  live  here  ?  and  I  said  yes,  and  she  said  she 
knew  only  one  or  two  places  about  here,  but  had  lost  her  way, 
and  couldn't  find  them.  0  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
They  won't  believe  me !  She  didn't  say  any  harm  to  me,  and 
I  didn't  say  any  harm  to  her,  indeed,  Mrs.  Snagsby ! " 

It  was  necessary  for  her  mistress  to  comfort  her  :  which  she 
did,  I  must  say,  with  a  good  deal  of  contrition :  before  she 
could  be  got  beyond  this. 

"  She  could  not  find  those  places,"  said  I. 

"  No  ! "  cried  the  girl,  shaking  her  head.  "  JSTo  !  Couldn't 
find  them.  And  she  was  so  faint,  and  lame,  and  miserable, 
0  so  wretched !  that  if  you  had  seen  her,  Mr.  Snagsby,  you'd 
have  given  her  half  a  crown,  I  know  ! " 

"Well,  Guster,  my  girl,"  said  he,  at  first  not  knowing 
what  to  say.    "  I  hope  I  should." 

"  And  yet  she  was  so  well  spoken,"  said  the  girl,  looking 
at  me  with  wide-open  eyes,  "  that  it  made  a  person's  heart 
bleed.    And  so  she  said  to  me,  did  I  know  the  way  to  the 


408 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


burying-ground  ?    And  I  asked  her  which  burying-ground  ?  I 
And  she  said  the  poor  burying-ground.    And  so  I  told  her  I  j 
had  been  a  poor  child  myself,  and  it  was  according  to  parishes. 
But  she  said  she  meant  a  poor  burying-ground  not  very  far  I 
from  here,  where  there  was  an  archway,  and  a  step,  and  an 
iron  gate." 

As  I  watched  her  face,  and  soothed  her  to  go  on,  I  saw  that 
Mr.  Bucket  received  this  with  a  look  which  I  could  not! 
separate  from  one  of  alarm. 

"  0  dear,  dear ! "  cried  the  girl,  pressing  her  hair  back 
with  her  hands,  "  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do !  She  I 
meant  the  burying-ground  where  the  man  was  buried  that 
took  the  sleeping  stuff  —  that  you  came  home  and  told  us  of,  j 
Mr.  Snagsby  —  that  frightened  me  so,  Mrs.  Snagsby.  0  I  am' 
frightened  again.    Hold  me  !  " 

"  You  are  so  much  better  now,"  said  I.  "Pray,  pray  tell 
me  more." 

"  Yes  I  will,  yes  I  will !    But  don't  be  angry  with  me, 
that's  a  dear  lady,  because  I  have  been  so  ill." 
Angry  with  her,  poor  soul ! 

"  There,  now  I  will,  now  I  will.  So  she  said,  could  I  tell 
her  how  to  find  it,  and  I  said  yes,  and  I  told  her;  and  shej 
looked  at  me  with  eyes  like  almost  as  if  she  was  blind,  and; 
herself  all  waving  back.  And  so  she  took  out  the  letter,  and 
showed  it  me,  and  said  if  she  was  to  put  that  in  the  post-j 
office,  it  would  be  rubbed  out  and  not  minded  and  never  sent ; 
and  would  I  take  it  from  her,  and  send  it,  and  the  messenger 
would  be  paid  at  the  house  ?  And  so  I  said  yes,  if  it  was  no 
harm,  and  she  said  no  —  no  harm.  And  so  I  took  it  from  her, 
and  she  said  she  had  nothing  to  give  me,  and  I  said  I  was 
poor  myself  and  consequently  wanted  nothing.  And  so  she 
said  God  bless  you  !  and  went." 

"  And  did  she  go  ?  "  — 

"Yes,"  cried  the  girl,  anticipating  the  inquiry,  "yes!  she 
went  the  way  I  had  shown  her.  Then  I  came  in,  and  Mrs. 
Snagsby  came  behind  me  from  somewhere,  and  laid  hold  of 
me,  and  I  was  frightened." 

Mr.  Woodcourt  took  her  kindly  from  me.  Mr.  Bucket 
wrapped  me  up,  and  immediately  we  were  in  the  street.  Mr. 


THE  MORNING. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


409 


TToodcourt  hesitated,  but  I  said,  "  Don't  leave  me  now  ! 99  and 
Jlffr.  Bucket  added,  "  You'll  be  better  with  us,  we  may  want 
you ;  don't  lose  time  !  " 

I  have  the  most  confused  impressions  of  that  walk.  I 
recollect  that  it  was  neither  night  nor  day;  that  morning 
was  dawning,  but  the  street-lamps  were  not  yet  put  out ;  that 
the  sleet  was  still  falling,  and  that  all  the  ways  were  deep 
with  it.  I  recollect  a  few  chilled  people  passing  in  the 
streets.  I  recollect  the  wet  housetops,  the  clogged  and  burst- 
ing gutters  and  water-spouts,  the  mounds  of  blackened  ice 
and  snow  over  which  we  passed,  the  narrowness  of  the  courts 
by  which  we  went.  At  the  same  time  I  remember,  that  the 
poor  girl  seemed  to  be  yet  telling  her  story  audibly  and 
plainly  in  my  hearing ;  that  I  could  feel  her  resting  on  my 
arm ;  that  the  stained  house-fronts  put  on  human  shapes  and 
looked  at  me ;  that  great  water-gates  seemed  to  be  opening 
and  closing  in  my  head,  or  in  the  air ;  and  that  the  unreal 
things  were  more  substantial  than  the  real. 

At  last  we  stood  under  a  dark  and  miserable  covered  way, 
where  one  lamp  was  burning  over  an  iron  gate,  and  where  the 
morning  faintly  struggled  in.  The  gate  was  closed.  Beyond 
it,  was  a  burial-ground  —  a  dreadful  spot  in  which  the  night 
was  very  slowly  stirring ;  but  where  I  could  dimly  see  heaps 
of  dishonored  graves  and  stones,  hemmed  in  by  filthy  houses, 
with  a  few  dull  lights  in  their  windows,  and  on  whose  walls  a 
thick  humidity  broke  out  like  a  disease.  On  the  step  at  the 
gate,  drenched  in  the  fearful  wet  of  such  a  place,  which  oozed 
and  splashed  down  everywhere,  I  saw,  with  a  cry  of  pity  and 
horror,  a  woman  lying  —  Jenny,  the  mother  of  the  dead 
child. 

I  ran  forward,  but  they  stopped  me,  and  Mr.  Woodcourt 
entreated  me,  with  the  greatest  earnestness,  even  with  tears, 
before  I  went  up  to  the  figure,  to  listen  for  an  instant  to  what 
Mr.  Bucket  said.  I  did  so,  as  I  thought.  I  did  so,  as  I  am 
sure. 

"Miss  Summerson,  you'll  understand  me,  if  you  think  a 
moment.     They  changed  clothes  at  the  cottage." 

They  changed  clothes  at  the  cottage.  I  could  repeat  the 
words  in  my  mind,  and  I  knew  what  they  meant  of  them- 


410 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


selves  ;  but  I  attached  no  meaning  to  them  in  any  other 
connection. 

"  And  one  returned/'  says  Mr.  Bucket,  "  and  one  went  on. 
And  the  one  that  went  on,  only  went  on  a  certain  way  agreed 
upon  to  deceive,  and  then  turned  across  country,  and  went 
home.    Think  a  moment !  " 

I  could  repeat  this  in  my  mind  too,  but  I  had  not  the  least 
idea  what  it  meant.    I  saw  before  me,  lying  on  the  step,  the 
mother  of  the  dead  child.     She  lay  there,  with  one  arm 
creeping  round  a  bar  of  the  iron  gate,  and  seeming  to  embrace 
it.    She  lay  there,  who  had  so  lately  spoken  to  my  mother. 
She  lay  there,  a  distressed,  unsheltered,  senseless  creature. 
She  who  had  brought  my  mother's  letter,  who  could  give  me 
the  only  clew  to  where  my  mother  was ;  she  who  was  to  guide, 
us  to  rescue  and  save  her  whom  we  had  sought  so  far,  who  had 
come  to  this  condition  by  some  means  connected  with  my^ 
mother  that  I  could  not  follow,  and  might  be  passing  beyond  j 
our  reach  and  help  at  that  moment;  she  lay  there,  and  they 
stopped  me  !    I  saw,  but  did  not  comprehend,  the  solemn  and 
compassionate  look  in  Mr.  Woodcourt's  face.    I  saw,  but  did, 
not  comprehend,  his  touching  the  other  on  the  breast  to  keep 
him  back.    I  saw  him  stand  uncovered  in  the  bitter  air,  with  j 
a  reverence  for  something.    But  my  understanding  for  all  this  j 
was  gone. 

I  even  heard  it  said  between  them,  — 

"  Shall  she  go  ?  "  j 
"She  had  better  go.    Her  hands  should  be  the  first  to* 

touch  her.    They  have  a  higher  right  than  ours." 

I  passed  on  to  the  gate,  and  stooped  down.    I  lifted  the 

heavy  head,  put  the  long  clank  hair  aside,  and  turned  the  face. 

And  it  was  my  mother,  cold  and  dead. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


411 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

PERSPECTIVE. 

I  proceed  to  other  passages  of  my  narrative.  From  the 
goodness  of  all  about  me,  I  derived  such  consolation  as  I  can 
never  think  of  unmoved.  I  have  already  said  so  much  of 
myself,  and  so  much  still  remains,  that  I  will  not  dwell  upon 
my  sorrow.  I  had  an  illness,  but  it  was  not  a  long  one ;  and 
I  would  avoid  even  this  mention  of  it,  if  I  could  quite  keep 
down  the  recollection  of  their  sympathy. 

I  proceed  to  other  passages  of  my  narrative. 

During  the  time  of  my  illness,  we  were  still  in  London, 
where  Mrs.  Woodcourt  had  come,  on  my  Guardian's  invitation, 
to  stay  with  us.  When  my  Guardian  thought  me  well  and 
cheerful  enough  to  talk  with  him  in  our  old  way  —  though  I 
could  have  done  that  sooner,  if  he  would  have  believed  me  — 
I  -resumed  my  work,  and  my  chair  beside  his.  He  had 
appointed  the  time  himself,  and  we  were  alone. 

"  Dame  Trot,"  said  he,  receiving  me  with  a  kiss,  "  welcome 
to  the  Growlery  again,  my  dear.  I  have  a  scheme  to  develop, 
little  woman.  I  purpose  to  remain  here,  perhaps  for  six 
months,  perhaps  for  a  longer  time  —  as  it  may  be.  Quite  to 
settle  here  for  a  while,  in  short." 

"  And  in  the  mean  while  leave  Bleak  House  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Ay,  my  dear  ?  Bleak  House,"  he  returned,  "  must  learn 
to  take  care  of  itself." 

I  thought  his  tone  sounded  sorrowful ;  but,  looking  at  him, 
I  saw  his  kind  face  lighted  up  by  its  pleasantest  smile. 

"  Bleak  House,"  he  repeated ;  and  his  tone  did  not  sound 
sorrowful,  I  found,  "  must  learn  to  take  care  of  itself.  It  is 
a  long  way  from  Ada,  my  dear,  and  Ada  stands  much  in  need 
of  you." 

"It  is  like  you,  Guardian,"  said  I,  "to  have  been  tak- 


412 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


ing  that  into  consideration,  for  a  happy  surprise  to  both 
of  us." 

"  Not  so  disinterested  either,  my  dear,  if  you  mean  to  extol 
me  for  that  virtue  ;  since,  if  you  were  generally  on  the  road, 
you  could  be  seldom  with  me.  And  besides,  I  wish  to  hear  as 
much  and  as  often  of  Ada  as  I  can,  in  this  condition  of 
estrangement  from  poor  Eick.  Not  of  her  alone,  but  of  him 
too,  poor  fellow." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Woodcourt,  this  morning,  Guardian  ?  " 

"  I  see  Mr.  Woodcourt  every  morning,  Dame  Durden." 

"  Does  he  still  say  the  same  of  Richard  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same.  He  knows  of  no  direct  bodily  illness  that 
he  has ;  on  the  contrary  he  believes  that  he  has  none.  Yet  he 
is  not  easy  about  him  ;  who  can  be  ?  " 

My  dear  girl  had  been  to  see  us  lately,  every  day ;  sometimes 
twice  in  a  day.  But  we  had  foreseen,  all  along,  that  this  would 
only  last  until  I  was  quite  myself.  We  knew  full  well  that 
her  fervent  heart  was  as  full  of  affection  and  gratitude  towards 
her  cousin  John  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  we  acquitted  Richard 
of  laying  any  injunctions  upon  her  to  stay  away ;  but  we  knew 
on  the  other  hand  that  she  felt  it  a  part  of  her  duty  to  him,  to 
be  sparing  of  her  visits  at  our  house.  My  Guardian's  delicacy 
had  soon  perceived  this,  and  had  tried  to  convey  to  her  that  he 
thought  she  was  right. 

"Dear,  unfortunate,  mistaken  Richard,"  said  I.  "When  will  j 
he  awake  from  his  delusion  ? 99 

"He  is  not  in  the  way  to  do  so  now,  my  dear,"  replied  my, 
Guardian.    "  The  more  he  suffers,  the  more  averse  he  will  be  * 
to  me :  having  made  me  the  principal  representative  of  the 
great  occasion  of  his  suffering." 

I  could  not  help  adding,  "  So  unreasonably  ! " 

"Ah,  Dame  Trot,  Dame  Trot!"  returned  my  Guardian, 
"  what  shall  we  find  reasonable  in  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  ? 
Unreason  and  injustice  at  the  top,  unreason  and  injustice  at 
the  heart  and  at  the  bottom,  unreason  and  injustice  from  begin- 
ning to  end  —  if  it  ever  has  an  end  —  how  should  poor  Rick, 
always  hovering  near  it,  pluck  reason  out  of  it  ?  He  no  more 
gathers  grapes  from  thorns,  or  figs  from  thistles,  than  older  I 
men  did,  in  old  times." 


BLEAK  HOUSE,  413 

His  gentleness  and  consideration  for  Richard,  whenever  we 
spoke  of  him,  touched  me  so,  that  I  was  always  silent  on  this 
subject  very  soon. 

"  I  suppose  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  the  Vice-Chancellors, 
and  the  whole  Chancery  battery  of  great  guns,  would  be  infi- 
nitely astonished  fey  such  unreason  and  injustice  in  one  of 
their  suitors,"  pursued  my  Guardian.  "When  those  learned 
gentlemen  begin  to  raise  moss-roses  from  the  powder  they  sow 
in  their  wigs,  I  shall  begin  to  be  astonished  too  ! " 

He  checked  himself  in  glancing  towards  the  window  to 
look  where  the  wind  was,  and  leaned  on  the  back  of  my  chair 
instead. 

"  Well,  well,  little  woman  !  To  go  on,  my  dear.  This  rock 
we  must  leave  to  time,  chance,  and  hopeful  circumstance.  We 
must  not  shipwreck  Ada  upon  it.  She  cannot  afford,  and  he 
cannot  afford,  the  remotest  chance  of  another  separation  from 
a  friend.  Therefore,  I  have  particularly  begged  of  Woodcourt, 
and  I  now  particularly  beg  of  you,  my  dear,  not  to  move  this 
subject  with  Rick.  Let  it  rest.  Next  week,  next  month, 
next  year,  sooner  or  later,  he  will  see  me  with  clearer  eyes.  I 
can  wait." 

But  I  had  already  discussed  it  with  him,  I  confessed ;  and 
so,  I  thought,  had  Mr.  Woodcourt. 

"  So  he  tells  me,"  returned  my  Guardian.  "  Very  good.  He 
has  made  his  protest,  and  Dame  Durden  has  made  hers,  and 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  it.  Now,  I  come  to 
Mrs.  Woodcourt  ?    How  do  you  like  her,  my  dear  ?  " 

In  answer  to  this  question,  which  was  oddly  abrupt,  I  said 
I  liked  her  very  much,  and  thought  she  was  more  agreeable 
than  she  used  to  be. 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  my  Guardian.  "  Less  pedigree  ?  Not 
so  much  of  Morgan-ap  —  what's  his  name  ?  " 

That  was  what  I  meant,  I  acknowledged ;  though  he  was  a 
very  harmless  person,  even  when  we  had  had  more  of  him. 

"  Still,  upon  the  whole,  he  is  as  well  in  his  native  moun- 
tains," said  my  Guardian.  "  I  agree  with  you.  Then,  little 
woman,  can  I  do  better  for  a  time  than  retain  Mrs.  Woodcourt, 
here  ?  " 

No.    And  yet  — 


414 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


My  Guardian  looked  at  me,  waiting  for  what  I  had  to  say. 

I  had  nothing  to  say.  At  least  I  had  nothing  in  my  mind 
that  I  could  say.  I  had  an  undefined  impression  that  it  might 
have  been  better  if  we  had  had  some  other  inmate,  but  I  could 
hardly  have  explained  why,  even  to  myself.  Or,  if  to  myself, 
certainly  not  to  anybody  else. 

"  You  see/'  said  my  Guardian,  "our  neighborhood  is  in  Wood- 
court's  way,  and  he  can  come  here  to  see  her  as  often  as  he 
likes,  which  is  agreeable  to  them  both ;  and  she  is  familiar  to 
us,  and  fond  of  you." 

Yes.  That  was  undeniable.  I  had  nothing  to  say  against 
it.  I  could  not  have  suggested  a  better  arrangement ;  but  I 
was  not  quite  easy  in  my  mind.  Esther,  Esther,  why  not  ? 
Esther,  think  ! 

"  It  is  a  very  good  plan,  indeed,  dear  Guardian,  and  we  could 
not  do  better." 

"  Sure,  little  woman  ?  " 

Quite  sure.  I  had  had  a  moment's  time  to  think,  since  I 
had  urged  that  duty  on  myself,  and  I  was  quite  sure. 

"Good,"  said  my  Guardian.  "It  shall  be  done.  Carried 
unanimously." 

"  Carried  unanimously,"  I  repeated,  going  on  with  my  work. 

It  was  a  cover  for  his  book-table  that  I  happened  to  be* 
ornamenting.  It  had  been  laid  by  on  the  night  preceding  my| 
sad  journey,  and  never  resumed.  I  showed  it  to  him  now,  j 
and  he  admired  it  highly.  After  I  had  explained  the  pattern  < 
to  him,  and  all  the  great  effects  that  were  to  come  out  by  and, 
by,  I  thought  I  would  go  back  to  our  last  theme. 

"You  said,  dear  Guardian,  when  we  spoke  of  Mr.  Woodcourt 
before  Ada  left  us,  that  you  thought  he  would  give  a  long  trial 
to  another  country.    Have  you  been  advising  him  since  ?  " 

"  Yes,  little  woman ;  pretty  often." 

"  Has  he  decided  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  not." 

"  Some  other  prospect  has  opened  to  him,  perhaps  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Why  —  yes  —  perhaps,"  returned  my  Guardian,  beginning  | 
his  answer  in  a  very  deliberate  manner.  "About  half  a  year  ( 
hence  or  so,  there  is  a  medical  attendant  for  the  poor  to  be  I 
appointed  at  a  certain  place  in  Yorkshire.    It  is  a  thriving  \ 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


415 


place,  pleasantly  situated ;  streams  and  streets,  town  and  coun- 
try, mill  and  moor ;  and  seems  to  present  an  opening  for  such 
a  man.  I  mean,  a  man  whose  hopes  and  aims  may  sometimes 
lie  (as  most  men's  sometimes  do,  I  dare  say)  above  the  ordi- 
nary level,  but  to  whom  the  ordinary  level  will  be  high  enough 
after  all,  if  it  should  prove  to  be  a  way  of  usefulness  and  good 
service  leading  to  no  other.  All  generous  spirits  are  ambitious, 
I  suppose  ;  but  the  ambition  that  calmly  trusts  itself  to  such  a 
road,  instead  of  spasmodically  trying  to  fly  over  it,  is  of  the 
kind  I  care  for.    It  is  Woodcourt's  kind." 

"And  will  he  get  this  appointment  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Why,  little  woman,"  returned  my  Guardian,  smiling,  "not 
being  an  oracle,  I  cannot  confidently  say ;  but  I  think  so.  His 
reputation  stands  very  high ;  there  were  people  from  that  part 
of  the  country  in  the  shipwreck  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  I  believe 
the  best  man  has  the  best  chance.  You  must  not  suppose  it 
to  be  a  fine  endowment.  It  is  a  very,  very  commonplace  affair, 
my  dear;  an  appointment  to  a  great  amount  of  work  and  a 
small  amount  of  pay ;  but  better  things  will  gather  about  it, 
it  may  be  fairly  hoped." 

"  The  poor  of  that  place  will  have  reason  to  bless  the  choice, 
if  it  falls  on  Mr.  Woodcourt,  Guardian." 

"  You  are  right,  little  woman ;  that  I  am  sure  they  will." 

We  said  no  more  about  it,  nor  did  he  say  a  word  about  the 
future  of  Bleak  House.  But  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  taken 
my  seat  at  his  side  in  my  mourning  dress,  and  that  accounted 
for  it  I  considered. 

I  now  began  to  visit  my  dear  girl  every  day,  in  the  dull  dark 
corner  where  she  lived.  The  morning  was  my  usual  time ; 
but  whenever  I  found  I  had  an  hour  or  so  to  spare,  I  put  on 
my  bonnet  and  bustled  off  to  Chancery  Lane.  They  were  both 
so  glad  to  see  me  at  all  hours,  and  used  to  brighten  up  so  when 
they  heard  me  opening  the  door  and  coming  in  (being  quite 
at  home,  I  never  knocked),  that  I  had  no  fear  of  becoming 
troublesome  just  yet. 

On  these  occasions  I  frequently  found  Eichard  absent.  At 
other  times  he  would  be  writing,  or  reading  papers  in  the 
Cause,  at  that  table  of  his,  so  covered  with  papers,  which  was 
never  disturbed.    Sometimes  I  would  come  upon  him,  linger- 


416 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


ing  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Vholes's  office.  Sometimes  I  would 
meet  him  in  the  neighborhood,  lounging  about,  and  biting  his 
nails.  I  often  met  him  wandering  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  near  the 
place  where  I  had  first  seen  him,  0  how  different,  how  dif- 
ferent ! 

That  the  money  Ada  brought  him  was  melting  away  with 
the  candles  I  used  to  see  burning  after  dark  in  Mr.  Vholes's 
office,  I  knew  very  well.  It  was  not  a  large  amount  in  the 
beginning ;  he  had  married  in  debt ;  and  I  could  not  fail  to 
understand,  by  this  time,  what  was  meant  by  Mr.  Vholes's 
shoulder  being  at  the  wheel  —  as  I  still  heard  it  was.  My 
dear  made  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and  tried  hard  to  save ; 
but  I  knew  that  they  were  getting  poorer  and  poorer  every 
day. 

She  shone  in  the  miserable  corner  like  a  beautiful  star. 
She  adorned  and  graced  it  so,  that  it  became  another  place. 
Paler  than  she  had  been  at  home,  and  a  little  quieter  than  I 
had  thought  natural  when  she  was  yet  so  cheerful  and 
hopeful,  her  face  was  so  unshadowed,  that  I  half  believed  she 
was  blinded  by  her  love  for  Eichard  to  his  ruinous  career. 

I  went  one  day  to  dine  with  them,  while  I  was  under  this 
impression.  As  I  turned  into  Symond's  Inn,  I  met  little  Miss 
Elite  coming  out.  She  had  been  to  make  a  stately  call  upon 
the  wards  in  Jarndyce,  as  she  still  called  them,  and  had 
derived  the  highest  gratification  from  that  ceremony.  Ada 
had  already  told  me  that  she  called  every  Monday  at  five 
o'clock,  with  one  little  extra  white  bow  in  her  bonnet,  which 
never  appeared  there  at  any  other  time,  and  with  her  largest 
reticule  of  documents  on  her  arm. 

"  My  dear  !  "  she  began.  "  So  delighted  !  How  do  you 
do  !  So  glad  to  see  you.  And  you  are  going  to  visit  our 
interesting  Jarndyce  wards  ?  To  be  sure  !  Our  beauty  is  at 
home,  my  dear,  and  will  be  charmed  to  see  you." 

"  Then  Richard  is  not  come  in  yet  ?  "  said  L  "  I  am  glad 
of  that,  for  I  was  afraid  of  being  a  little  late." 

"  No,  he  is  not  come  in,"  returned  Miss  Flite.  "  He  has 
had  a  long  day  in  court.  I  left  him  there,  with  Vholes. 
You  don't  like  Vholes,  I  hope  ?  Don't  like  Vholes.  Dan- 
gerous man  ! " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


417 


"  I  am  afraid  you  see  Richard  oftener  than  ever  now  ?  " 
said  I.  * 

"  My  dearest/'  returned  Miss  Elite,  "  daily  and  hourly. 
You  know  what  I  told  you  of  the  attraction  on  the  Chancel- 
lor's table  ?  My  dear,  next  to  myself  he  is  the  most  constant 
suitor  in  court.  He  begins  quite  to  amuse  our  little  party. 
Ve-ry  friendly  little  party,  are  we  not  ?  " 

It  was  miserable  to  hear  this  from  her  poor  mad  lips,  though 
it  was  no  surprise. 

"  In  short,  my  valued  friend,"  pursued  Miss  Flite,  advan- 
cing her  lips  to  my  ear,  with  an  air  of  equal  patronage  and 
mystery,  "  I  must  tell  you  a  secret.  I  have  made  him  my 
executor.  Nominated,  constituted,  and  appointed  him.  In 
my  will.  Ye-es." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Ye-es,"  repeated  Miss  Elite,  in  her  most  genteel  accents, 
"  my  executor,  administrator,  and  assign.  (Our  Chancery 
phrases,  my  love.)  I  have  reflected  that  if  I  should  wear 
out,  he  will  be  able  to  watch  that  judgment.  Being  so  very 
regular  in  his  attendance." 

It  made  me  sigh  to  think  of  him. 

"I  did  at  one  time  mean,"  said  Miss  Flite,  echoing  the 
sigh,  "to  nominate,  constitute,  and  appoint  poor  Gridley. 
Also  very  regular,  my  charming  girl.  I  assure  you,  most 
exemplary  !  But  he  wore  out,  poor  man,  so  I  have  appointed 
his  successor.    Don't  mention  it.    This  is  in  confidence." 

She  carefully  opened  her  reticule  a  little  way,  and  showed 
me  a  folded  piece  of  paper  inside,  as  the  appointment  of 
which  she  spoke. 

"  Another  secret,  my  dear.  I  have  added  to  my  collection 
of  birds." 

"Really,  Miss  Flite?"  said  I,  knowing  how  it  pleased 
her  to  have  her  confidence  received  with  an  appearance  of 
interest. 

She  nodded  several  times,  and  her  face  became  overcast 
and  gloomy.  "  Two  more.  I  call  them  the  Wards  in 
Jarndyce.  They  are  caged  up  with  all  the  others.  With 
Hope,  Joy,  Youth,  Peace,  Rest,  Life,  Dust,  Ashes,  Waste, 
Want,   Ruin,   Despair,    Madness,   Death,  Cunning,  Folly, 

VOL.  II. 


418 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Words,  Wigs,  Bags,  Sheepskin,  Plunder,  Precedent,  Jargon, 
Gammon,  and  Spinach  ! " 

The  poor  soul  kissed  me,  with  the  most  troubled  look  I 
had  ever  seen  in  her ;  and  went  her  way.  Her  manner  of 
running  over  the  names  of  her  birds,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
of  hearing  them  even  from  her  own  lips  quite  chilled  me. 

This  was  not  a  cheering  preparation  for  my  visit,  and  I 
could  have  dispensed  with  the  company  of  Mr.  Vholes,  when 
Richard  (who  arrived  within  a  minute  or  two  after  me) 
brought  him  to  share  our  dinner.  Although  it  was  a  very 
plain  one,  Ada  and  Richard  were  for  some  minutes  both  out 
of  the  room  together,  helping  to  get  ready  what  we  were  to 
eat  and  drink.  Mr.  Vholes  took  that  opportunity  of  holding 
a  little  conversation  in  a  low  voice  with  me.  He  came  to  the 
window  where  I  was  sitting,  and  began  upon  Symond's  Inn. 

"  A  dull  place,  Miss  Summerson,  for  a  life  that  is  not  an  ; 
official  one,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  smearing  the  glass  with  his  ' 
black  glove  to  make  it  clearer  for  me. 

"  There  is  not  much  to  see  here,"  said  I. 

"Nor  to  hear,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes.  "A  little 
masic  does  occasionally  stray  in;  but  we  are  not  musical  in 
the  law,  and  soon  eject  it.  I  hope  Mr.  Jarndyce  is  as  well  as 
his  friends  could  wish  him  ?  " 

I  thanked  Mr.  Vholes,  and  said  he  was  quite  well. 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure  to  be  admitted  among  the  number  \ 
of  his  friends  myself,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  "  and  I  am  aware  j 
that  the  gentlemen  of  our  profession  are  sometimes  regarded 
in  such  quarters  with  an  unfavorable  eye.    Our  plain  course  ' 
however,  under  good  report  and  evil  report,  and  all  kinds  of 
prejudice,  (we  are  the  victims  of  prejudice)  is  to  have  every- 
thing openly  carried  on.    How  do  you  find  Mr.  C  looking, 
Miss  Summerson  ?  " 

"  He  looks  very  ill.    Dreadfully  anxious." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

He  stood  behind  me,  with  his  long  black  figure  reaching 
nearly  to  the  ceiling  of  those  low  rooms  ;  feeling  the  pimples 
on  his  face  as  if  they  were  ornaments,  and  speaking  inwardly 
and  evenly  as  though  there  were  not  a  human  passion  or 
emotion  in  his  nature. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


419 


u  Mr.  Woodcourt  is  in  attendance  upon  Mr.  C,  I  believe  ?  " 
he  resumed. 

"Mr.  Woodcourt  is  his  disinterested  friend/'  I  answered. 
"But  I  mean  in  professional  attendance,  medical  attend- 
ance." 

"  That  can  do  little  for  an  unhappy  mind/'  said  I. 
"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

So  slow,  so  eager,  so  bloodless  and  gaunt,  I  felt  as  if 
Richard  were  wasting  away  beneath  the  eyes  of  this  adviser, 
and  there  were  something  of  the  Vampire  in  him. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Vholes,  very  slowly  rubbing 
his  gloved  hands,  as  if,  to  his  cold  sense  of  touch,  they  were 
much  the  same  in  black  kid  or  out  of  it,  "  this  was  an  ill- 
advised  marriage  of  Mr.  C's." 

I  begged  he  would  excuse  me  for  discussing  it.  They  had 
been  engaged  when  they  were  both  very  young,  I  told  him 
(a  little  indignantly),  and  when  the  prospect  before  them  was 
much  fairer  and  brighter.  When  Eichard  had  not  yielded 
himself  to  the  unhappy  influence  which  now  darkened  his  life. 

"Just  so,"  assented  Mr.  Vholes  again.  "Still,  with  a 
view  to  everything  being  openly  carried  on,  I  will,  with  your 
permission,  Miss  Summerson,  observe  to  you  that  I  consider 
this  a  very  ill-advised  marriage,  indeed.  I  owe  the  opinion, 
not  only  to  Mr.  C's  connections,  against  whom  I  should 
naturally  wish  to  protect  myself,  but  also  to  my  own  reputa- 
tion—  dear  to  myself,  as  a  professional  man  aiming  to  keep 
respectable  ;  dear  to  my  three  girls  at  home,  for  whom  I  am 
striving  to  realize  some  little  independence  ;  dear,  I  will  even 
say,  to  my  aged  father,  whom  it  is  my  privilege  to  support." 

"  It  would  become  a  very  different  marriage,  a  much  happier 
and  better  marriage,  another  marriage  altogether,  Mr.  Vholes," 
said  T,  "  if  Eichard  were  persuaded  to  turn  his  back  on  the 
fatal  pursuit  in  which  you  are  engaged  with  him." 

Mr.  Vholes,  with  a  noiseless  cough  —  or  rather  gasp  —  into 
one  of  his  black  gloves,  inclined  his  head  as  if  he  did  not 
wholly  dispute  even  that. 

"Miss  Summerson,"  he  said,  "it  may  be  so;  and  I  freely 
admit  that  the  young  lady  who  has  taken  Mr.  C's  name  upon 
herself  in  so  ill-advised  a  manner  —  you  will  I  am  sure  not 


420 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


quarrel  with  me  for  throwing  out  that  remark  again,  as  a 
duty  I  owe  to  Mr.  C's  connections  —  is  a  highly  genteel  young 
lady.  Business  has  prevented  me  from  mixing  much  with 
general  society,  in  any  but  a  professional  character;  still  I  trust 
I  am  competent  to  perceive  that  she  is  a  highly  genteel  young 
lady.  As  to  beauty,  I  am  not  a  judge  of  that  myself,  and  I 
never  did  give  much  attention  to  it  from  a  boy ;  but  I  dare 
say  the  young  lady  is  equally  eligible,  in  that  point  of  view. 
She  is  considered  so  (I  have  heard)  among  the  clerks  in  the 
Inn,  and  it  is  a  point  more  in  their  way  than  in  mine.  In 
reference  to  Mr.  C's  pursuit  of  his  interests  "  — 
"0  !    His  interests,  Mr.  Vholes  !  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Vholes,  going  on  in  exactly 
the  same  inward  and  dispassionate  manner.  "  Mr.  C  takes 
certain  interests  under  certain  wills  disputed  in  the  suit.  It  is 
a  term  we  use.  In  reference  to  Mr.  C's  pursuit  of  his  inter- 
ests, I  mentioned  to  you,  Miss  Summerson,  the  first  time  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  in  my  desire  that  everything 
should  be  openly  carried  on  —  I  used  those  words,  for  I  hap- 
pened afterwards  to  note  them  in  my  diary,  which  is  produ* 
cible  at  any  time — I  mentioned  to  you  that  Mr.  C  had  laid 
down  the  principle  of  watching  his  own  interests ;  and  that 
when  a  client  of  mine  laid  down  a  principle  which  was  not 
of  an  immoral  (that  is  to  say,  unlawful)  nature,  it  devolved 
upon  me  to  carry  it  out.  I  have  carried  it  out ;  I  do  carry  it 
out.  But  I  will  not  smooth  things  over,  to  any  connection  of 
Mr.  C?s,  on  any  account.  As  open  as  I  was  to  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
I  am  to  you.  I  regard  it  in  the  light  of  a  professional  duty 
to  be  so,  though  it  can  be  charged  to  no  one.  I  openly  say, 
unpalatable  as  it  may  be,  that  I  consider  Mr.  C?s  affairs  in  a 
very  bad  way,  that  I  consider  Mr.  C  himself  in  a  very  bad 
way,  and  that  I  regard  this  as  an  exceedingly  ill-advised  mar- 
riage. —  Am  I  here,  sir  ?  Yes,  I  thank  you ;  I  am  here,  Mr. 
C,  and  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  some  agreeable  conversation 
with  Miss  Summerson,  for  which  I  have  to  thank  you  very 
much,  sir  !  " 

He  broke  off  thus,  in  answer  to  Eichard,  who  addressed 
him  as  he  came  into  the  room.  By  this  time,  I  too  well 
understood  Mr.  Vholes's  scrupulous  way  of  saving  himself  and 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


421 


his  respectability,  not  to  feel  that  our  worst  fears  did  but  keep 
pace  with  his  client's  progress. 

We  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing Richard,  anxiously.  I  was  not  disturbed  by  Mr.  Vholes 
(who  took  off  his  gloves  to  dine),  though  he  sat  opposite  to 
me  at  the  small  table ;  for  I  doubt  if,  looking  up  at  all,  he 
once  removed  his  eyes  from  his  host's  face.  I  found  Richard 
thin  and  languid,  slovenly  in  his  dress,  abstracted  in  his 
manner,  forcing  his  spirits  now  and  then,  and  at  other  inter- 
vals relapsing  into  a  dull  thoughtfulness.  About  his  large 
bright  eyes  that  used  to  be  so  merry,  there  was  a  wanness 
and  a  restlessness  that  changed  them  altogether.  I  cannot 
use  the  expression  that  he  looked  old.  There  is  a  ruin  of 
youth  which  is  not  like  age ;  and  into  such  a  ruin,  Richard's 
youth  and  youthful  beauty  had  all  fallen  away. 

He  ate  little,  and  seemed  indifferent  what  it  was ;  showed 
himself  to  be  much  more  impatient  than  he  used  to  be  ;  and 
was  quick,  even  with  Ada.  I  thought,  at  first,  that  his  old 
light-hearted  manner  was  all  gone ;  but  it  shone  out  of  him 
sometimes,  as  I  had  occasionally  known  little  momentary 
glimpses  of  my  own  old  face  to  look  out  upon  me  from  the 
glass.  His  laugh  had  not  quite  left  him  either ;  but  it  was 
like  the  echo  of  a  joyful  sound,  and  that  is  always  sorrowful. 

Yet  he  was  as  glad  as  ever,  in  his  old  affectionate  way,  to 
have  me  there ;  and  we  talked  of  the  old  times  pleasantly. 
These  did  not  appear  to  be  interesting  to  Mr.  Vholes,  though 
he  occasionally  made  a  gasp  which  I  believe  was  his  smile. 
He  rose  shortly  after  dinner,  and  said  that  with  the  permis- 
sion of  the  ladies  he  would  retire  to  his  office. 

"Always  devoted  to  business,  Vholes  !  "  cried  Richard. 

aYes,  Mr.  C,"  he  returned,  "the  interests  of  clients  are 
never  to  be  neglected,  sir.  They  are  paramount  in  the 
thoughts  of  a  professional  man  like  myself,  who  wishes  to 
preserve  a  good  name  among  his  fellow-practitioners  and 
society  at  large.  My  denying  myself  the  pleasure  of  the 
present  agreeable  conversation,  may  not  be  wholly  irrespective 
of  your  own  interests,  Mr.  C." 

Richard  expressed  himself  quite  sure  of  that,  and  lighted 
Mr.  Vholes  out.    On  his  return  he  told  us,  more  than  once, 


422 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


that  Vholes  was  a  good  fellow,  a  safe  fellow,  a  man  who  did 
what  he  pretended  to  do,  a  very  good  fellow,  indeed !  He 
was  so  defiant  about  it,  that  it  struck  me  he  had  begun  to 
doubt  Mr.  Vholes. 

Then  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  tired  out ;  and  Ada  and 
I  put  things  to  rights,  for  they  had  no  other  servant  than  the 
woman  who  attended  to  the  chambers.  My  dear  girl  had  a 
cottage  piano  there,  and  quietly  sat  down  to  sing  some  of 
Richard's  favorites ;  the  lamp  being  first  removed  into  the 
next  room,  as  he  complained  of  its  hurting  his  eyes. 

I  sat  between  them,  at  my  dear  girl's  side,  and  felt  very 
melancholy  listening  to  her  sweet  voice.  I  think  Richard  did 
too ;  I  think  he  darkened  the  room  for  that  reason.  She  had 
been  singing  some  time,  rising  between  whiles  to  bend  over 
him  and  speak  to  him  ;  when  Mr.  Woodcourt  came  in.  Then 
he  sat  down  by  Richard ;  and  half  playfully,  half  earnestly, 
quite  naturally  and  easily,  found  out  how  he  felt,  and  where 
he  had  been  all  day.  Presently  he  proposed  to  accompany 
him  in  a  short  walk  on  one  of  the  bridges,  as  it  was  a  moon- 
light airy  night ;  and  Richard  readily  consenting,  they  went 
out  together. 

They  left  my  dear  girl  still  sitting  at  the  piano,  and  me 
still  sitting  beside  her.  When  they  were  gone  out,  I  drew 
my  arm  round  her  waist.  She  put  her  left  hand  in  mine  (I 
was  sitting  on  that  side),  but  kept  her  right  upon  the  keys  — 
going  over  and  over  them,  without  striking  any  note. 

"  Esther,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  breaking  silence,  "  Richard 
is  never  so  well,  and  I  am  never  so  easy  about  him,  as  when 
he  is  with  Allan  Woodcourt.    We  have  to  thank  you  for  that." 

I  pointed  out  to  my  darling  how  this  could  scarcely  be, 
because  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  come  to  her  cousin  John's  house, 
and  had  known  us  all  there ;  and  because  he  had  always  liked 
Richard,  and  Richard  had  always  liked  him,  and  —  and  so 
forth. 

"  All  true,"  said  Ada ;  "  but  that  he  is  such  a  devoted  friend 
to  us,  we  owe  to  you." 

I  thought  it  best  to  let  my  dear  girl  have  her  way,  and  to 
say  no  more  about  it.  So  I  said  as  much.  I  said  it  lightly, 
because  I  felt  her  trembling. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


423 


"  Esther,  my  dearest,  I  want  to  be  a  good  wife,  a  very,  very 
good  wife  indeed.    You  shall  teach  me." 

I  teach  !  I  said  no  more ;  for  I  noticed  the  hand  that  was 
fluttering  over  the  keys,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  not  I  who 
ought  to  speak ;  that  it  was  she  who  had  something  to  say 
to  me. 

"  When  I  married  Eichard,  I  was  not  insensible  to  what 
was  before  him.  I  had  been  perfectly  happy  for  a  long  time 
with  you,  and  I  had  never  known  any  trouble  or  anxiety,  so 
loved  and  cared  for ;  but  I  understood  the  danger  he  was  in, 
dear  Esther." 

"I  know,  I  know,  my  darling." 

"When  we  were  married,  I  had  some  little  hope  that  I 
might  be  able  to  convince  him  of  his  mistake ;  that  he  might 
come  to  regard  it  in  a  new  way  as  my  husband,  and  not  pur- 
sue it  all  the  more  desperately  for  my  sake  —  as  he  does. 
But  if  I  had  not  had  that  hope,  I  would  have  married  him 
just  the  same,  Esther.    Just  the  same  ! " 

In  the  momentary  firmness  of  the  hand  that  was  never  still 
—  a  firmness  inspired  by  the  utterance  of  these  last  words, 
and  dying  away  with  them  —  I  saw  the  confirmation  of  her 
earnest  tones. 

"  You  are  not  to  think,  my  dearest  Esther,  that  I  fail  to 
see  what  you  see,  and  fear  what  you  fear.  No  one  can  under- 
stand him  better  than  I  do.  The  greatest  wisdom  that  ever 
lived  in  the  world  could  scarcely  know  Eichard  better  than 
my  love  does." 

She  spoke  so  modestly  and  softly,  and  her  trembling  hand 
expressed  such  agitation,  as  it  moved  to  and  fro  upon  the 
silent  notes  !    My  dear,  dear  girl ! 

"  I  see  him  at  his  worst,  every  day.  I  watch  him  in  his 
sleep.  I  know  every  change  of  his  face.  But  when  I  married 
Eichard  I  was  quite  determined,  Esther,  if  Heaven  would 
help  me,  never  to  show  him  that  I  grieved  for  what  he  did, 
and  so  to  make  him  more  unhappy.  I  want  him,  when  he 
comes  home,  to  find  no  trouble  in  my  face.  I  want  him,  when 
he  looks  at  me,  to  see  what  he  loved  in  me.  I  married  him 
to  do  this,  and  this  supports  me." 

I   felt  her  trembling  more.     I   waited  for  what  was 


424 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


yet  to  come,  and  I  now  thought  I  began  to  know  what  it 
was. 

"  And  something  else  supports  me,  Esther." 

She  stopped  a  minute.    Stopped  speaking  only  ;  her  hand 
was  still  in  motion. 

"  I  look  forward  a  little  while,  and  I  don't  know  what  great 
aid  may  come  to  me.  When  Eichard  turns  his  eyes  upon  me 
then,  there  may  be  something  lying  on  my  breast  more  elo- 
quent than  I  have  been,  with  greater  power  than  mine  to 
show  him  his  true  course,  and  win  him  back." 

Her  hand  stopped  now.    She  clasped  me  in  her  arms,  and  I 
clasped  her  in  mine. 

u  If  that  little  creature  should  fail  too,  Esther,  I  still  look 
forward.  I  look  forward  a  long  while,  through  years  and 
years,  and  think  that  then,  when  I  am  growing  old,  or  when  I  ; 
am  dead  perhaps,  a  beautiful  woman,  his  daughter,  happily 
married,  may  be  proud  of  him  and  a  blessing  to  him.  Or  ' 
that  a  generous  brave  man,  as  handsome  as  he  used  to  be,  as 
hopeful,  and  far  more  happy,  may  walk  in  the  sunshine  with 
him,  honoring  his  gray  head,  and  saying  to  himself,  'I  thank 
God  this  is  my  father!  ruined  by  a  fatal  inheritance,  and 
restored  through  me  ! ' " 

0,  my  sweet  girl,  what  a  heart  was  that  which  beat  so  fast 
against  me ! 

"  These  hopes  uphold  me,  my  dear  Esther,  and  I  know  they  j 
will.    Though  sometimes  even  they  depart  from  me,  before  a 
dread  that  arises  when  I  look  at  Eichard." 

I  tried  to  cheer  my  darling,  and  asked  her  what  it  was  ?  ! 
Sobbing  and  weeping,  she  replied,  — 

"  That  he  may  not  live  to  see  his  child." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


425 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  DISCOVERY. 

The  days  when  I  frequented  that  miserable  corner  which 
my  dear  girl  brightened,  can  never  fade  in  my  remembrance. 
I  never  see  it,  and  I  never  wish  to  see  it,  now ;  I  have  been 
there  only  once  since  ;  but  in  my  memor}'  there  is  a  mournful 
glory  shining  on  the  place,  which  will  shine  forever. 

Not  a  day  passed,  without  my  going  there,  of  course.  At 
first  I  found  Mr.  Skimpole  there,  on  two  or  three  occasions, 
idly  playing  the  piano,  and  talking  in  his  usual  vivacious 
strain.  Now,  besides  my  very  much  mistrusting  the  proba- 
bility of  his  being  there  without  making  Richard  poorer,  I 
felt  as  if  there  were  something  in  his  careless  gayety,  too 
inconsistent  with  what  I  knew  of  the  depths  of  Ada's  life.  I 
clearly  perceived,  too,  that  Ada  shared  my  feelings.  I  there- 
fore resolved,  after  much  thinking  of  it,  to  make  a  private 
visit  to  Mr.  Skimpole,  and  try  delicately  to  explain  myself. 
My  dear  girl  was  the  great  consideration  that  made  me  bold. 

I  set  off  one  morning,  accompanied  by  Charley,  for  Somers 
Town.  As  I  approached  the  house,  I  was  strongly  inclined 
to  turn  back,  for  I  felt  what  a  desperate  attempt  it  was  to 
make  an  impression  on  Mr.  Skimpole,  and  how  extremely 
likely  it  was  that  he  would  signally  defeat  me.  However,  I 
thought  that  being  there,  I  would  go  through  with  it.  I 
knocked  with  a  trembling  hand  at  Mr.  Skimpole's  door  — liter- 
ally with  a  hand,  for  the  knocker  was  gone  —  and  after  a 
long  parley  gained  admission  from  an  Irishwoman,  who  was 
in  the  area  when  I  knocked,  breaking  up  the  lid  of  a  water- 
butt  with  a  poker,  to  light  the  fire  with. 

Mr.  Skimpole,  lying  on  the  sofa  in  his  room,  playing  the 
flute  a  little,  was  enchanted  to  see  me.  Now,  who  should 
receive  me,  he  asked  ?    Who  would  I  prefer  for  mistress  of 


426  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

the  ceremonies  ?  Would  I  have  his  Comedy  daughter,  his 
Beauty  daughter,  or  his  Sentiment  daughter  ?  Or  would  I 
have  all  the  daughters  at  once,  in  a  perfect  nosegay  ? 

I  replied,  half  defeated  already,  that  I  wished  to  speak  to 
himself  only,  if  he  would  give  me  leave. 

"My  dear  Miss  Summerson,  most  joyfully!  Of  course," 
he  said,  bringing  his  chair  near  mine,  and  breaking  into  his 
fascinating  smile,  "  of  course  it's  not  business.  Then  it's 
pleasure ! " 

I  said  it  certainly  was  not  business  that  I  came  upon,  but 
it  was  not  quite  a  pleasant  matter. 

"Then,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  said  he  with  the 
frankest  gayety,  "don't  allude  to  it.  Why  should  you  allude 
to  anything  that  is  not  a  pleasant  matter  ?  /  never  do.  And 
you  are  a  much  pleasanter  creature,  in  every  point  of  view, 
than  I.  You  are  perfectly  pleasant ;  I  am  imperfectly  pleas- 
ant; then,  if  I  never  allude  to  an  unpleasant  matter,  how 
much  less  should  you  !  So  that's  disposed  of,  and  we  will 
talk  of  something  else." 

Although  I  was  embarrassed,  I  took  courage  to  intimate 
that  I  still  wished  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"I  should  think  it  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with 
his  airy  laugh,  "  if  I  thought  Miss  Summerson  capable  of 
making  one.    But  I  don't !  " 

"  Mr.  Skimpole,"  said  I,  raising  my  eyes  to  his,  "  I  have 
so  often  heard  you  say  that  you  are  unacquainted  with  the 
common  affairs  of  life  "  — 

"  Meaning  our  three  banking-house  friends,  L,  S,  and  who's 
the  junior  partner  ?  D  ?  "  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  brightly. 
"  Not  an  idea  of  them  !  " 

"  —  That,  perhaps,"  I  went  on,  "  you  will  excuse  my  bold- 
ness on  that  account.    I  think  you  ought  most  seriously  t 
know  that  Kichard  is  poorer  than  he  was." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Skimpole.    "  So  am  I,  they  tell  me." 

"  And  in  very  embarrassed  circumstances." 

"  Parallel  case  exactly ! "  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  a  de- 
lighted countenance. 

"  This  at  present  naturally  causes  Ada  much  secret  anxiety ; 
and  as  I  think  she  is  less  anxious  when  no  claims  are  made 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


427 


upon  her  by  visitors,  and  as  Kichard  has  one  uneasiness 
always  heavy  on  his  mind,  it  has  occurred  to  me  to  take  the 
liberty  of  saying  that  —  if  you  would  —  not  "  — 

I  was  coming  to  the  point  with  great  difficulty,  when  he 
took  me  by  both  hands,  and  with  a  radiant  face  and  in  the 
liveliest  way,  anticipated  it. 

"  Not  go  there  ?  Certainly  not,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson, 
most  assuredly  not.  Why  should  I  go  there  ?  When  I  go 
anywhere,  I  go  for  pleasure.  I  don't  go  anywhere  for  pain, 
because  I  was  made  for  pleasure.  Pain  comes  to  me  when  it 
wants  me.  Now  I  have  had  very  little  pleasure  at  our  dear 
Richard's,  lately,  and  your  practical  sagacity  demonstrates 
why.  Our  young  friends,  losing  the  youthful  poetry  which 
was  once  so  captivating  in  them,  begin  to  think,  6  This  is  a 
man  who  wants  pounds.'  So  I  am  ;  I  always  want  pounds  ; 
not  for  myself,  but  because  tradespeople  always  want  them  of 
me.  Next,  our  young  friends  begin  to  think,  becoming  mer- 
cenary, '  This  is  the  man  who  had  pounds,  —  who  borrowed 
them  ; '  which  I  did.  I  always  borrow  pounds.  So  our  young 
friends,  reduced  to  prose  (which  is  much  to  be  regretted), 
degenerate  in  their  power  of  imparting  pleasure  to  me.  Why 
should  I  go  to  see  them  therefore  ?    Absurd  ! " 

Through  the  beaming  smile  with  which  he  regarded  me,  as 
he  reasoned  thus,  there  now  broke  forth  a  look  of  disinterested 
benevolence  quite  astonishing. 

"  Besides,"  he  said,  pursuing  his  argument,  in  his  tone  of 
light-hearted  conviction,  "if  I  don't  go  anywhere  for  pain  — 
which  would  be  a  perversion  of  the  intention  of  my  being,  and 
a  monstrous  thing  to  do  —  why  should  I  go  anywhere  to  be  the 
cause  of  pain  ?  If  I  went  to  see  our  young  friends  in  their 
present  ill-regulated  state  of  mind,  I  should  give  them  pain. 
The  associations  with  me  would  be  disagreeable.  They  might 
say,  6  This  is  the  man  who  had  pounds,  and  who  can't  pay 
pounds,'  which  I  can't,  of  course  ;  nothing  could  be  more  out 
of  the  question  !  Then,  kindness  requires  that  I  shouldn't 
go  near  them  —  and  I  won't." 

He  finished  by  genially  kissing  my  hand,  and  thanking  me. 
Nothing  but  Miss  Summerson's  fine  tact,  he  said,  would  have 
found  this  out  for  him. 


428 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


I  was  much  disconcerted ;  but  I  reflected  that  if  the  main 
point  were  gained,  it  mattered  little  how  strangely  he  per- 
verted everything  leading  to  it.  I  had  determined  to  mention 
something  else,  however,  and  I  thought  I  was  not  to  be  put  off 
in  that. 

"Mr.  Skimpole,"  said  I,  "I  must  take  the  liberty  of 
saying,  before  I  conclude  my  visit,  that  I  was  much  surprised 
to  learn,  on  the  best  authority,  some  little  time  ago,  that  you 
knew  with  whom  that  poor  boy  left  Bleak  House,  and  that  you 
accepted  a  present  on  that  occasion.  I  have  not  mentioned  it 
to  my  Guardian,  for  I  fear  it  would  hurt  him  unnecessarity ; 
but  I  may  say  to  you  that  I  was  much  surprised." 

"  No  ?  Really  surprised,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson  ?  "  he 
returned,  inquiringly,  raising  his  pleasant  eyebrows. 

"  Greatly  surprised." 

He  thought  about  it  for  a  little  while,  with  a  highly  agree- 
able and  whimsical  expression  of  face ;  then  quite  gave  it  up, 
and  said,  in  his  most  engaging  manner,  — 

"  You  know  what  a  child  I  am.    Why  surprised  ?  " 

I  was  reluctant  to  enter  minutely  into  that  question ;  but 
as  he  begged  I  would,  for  he  was  really  curious  to  know,  I 
gave  him  to  understand,  in  the  gentlest  words  I  could  use,  that 
his  conduct  seemed  to  involve  a  disregard  of  several  moral 
obligations.  He  was  much  amused  and  interested  when  he 
heard  this,  and  said,  "No,  really?"  with  ingenuous  simplicity. 

"  You  know  I  don't  pretend  to  be  responsible.  I  never 
could  do  it.  Responsibility  is  a  thing  that  has  always  been 
above  me  —  or  below  me,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  "I  don't  even 
know  which ;  but,  as  I  understand  the  way  in  which  my  dear 
Miss  Summerson  (alway  remarkable  for  her  practical  good- 
sense  and  clearness)  puts  this  case,  I  should  imagine  it  was 
chiefly  a  question  of  money,  do  you  know  ?  " 

I  incautiously  gave  a  qualified  assent  to  this. 

"Ah!  Then  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  shaking  his 
head,  "  I  am  hopeless  of  understanding  it." 

I  suggested,  as  I  rose  to  go,  that  it  was  not  right  to  betray 
my  Guardian's  confidence  for  a  bribe. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Summerson,"  he  returned,  with  a  candid 
hilarity  that  was  all  his  own,  "  I  can't  be  bribed." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


429 


"Not  by  Mr.  Bucket  ?  "  said  I. 

"No/7  said  he.  "Not  by  anybody.  I  don't  attach  any 
value  to  money.  I  don't  care  about  it,  I  don't  know  a.bout  it, 
I  don't  want  it,  I  don't  keep  i[ — it  goes  away  from  me 
directly.    How  can  /  be  bribed  ?  " 

I  showed  that  I  was  of  a  different  opinion,  though  I  had 
not  the  capacity  for  arguing  the  question. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  "  I  am  exactly  the 
man  to  be  placed  in  a  superior  position,  in  such  a  case  as  that. 
I  am  above  the  rest  of  mankind,  in  such  a  case  as  that  I 
can  act  with  philosophy,  in  such  a  case  as  that.  I  am  not 
warped  by  prejudices,  as  an  Italian  baby  is  by  bandages.  I 
am  as  free  as  the  air.  I  feel  myself  as  far  above  suspicion  as 
Caesar's  wife." 

Anything  to  equal  the  lightness  of  his  manner,  and  the 
playful  impartiality  with  which  he  seemed  to  convince  him- 
self, as  he  tossed  the  matter  about  like  a  ball  of  feathers,  was 
surely  never  seen  in  anybody  else ! 

"  Observe  the  case,  my  dear  Miss  Summerson.  Here  is  a 
boy  received  into  the  house  and  put  to  bed,  in  a  state  that  I 
strongly  object  to.  The  boy  being  in  bed,  a  man  arrives  — 
like  the  house  that  Jack  built.  Here  is  the  man  who  demands 
the  boy  who  is  received  into  the  house  and  put  to  bed  in  a 
state  that  I  strongly  object  to.  Here  is  a  bank-note  produced 
by  the  man  who  demands  the  boy  who  is  received  into  the 
house  and  put  to  bed  in  a  state  that  I  strongly  object  to. 
Here  is  the  Skimpole  who  accepts  the  bank-note  produced  by 
the  man  who  demands  the  boy  who  is  received  into  the  house 
and  put  to  bed  in  a  state  that  I  strongly  object  to.  Those  are 
the  facts.  Very  well.  Should  the  Skimpole  have  refused 
the  note  ?  Why  should  the  Skimpole  have  refused  the  note  ? 
Skimpole  protests  to  Bucket :  6  What's  this  for  ?  I  don't 
understand  it,  it  is  of  no  use  to  me,  take  it  away.'  Bucket 
still  entreats  Skimpole  to  accept  it.  Are  there  reasons  why 
Skimpole,  not  being  warped  by  prejudices,  should  accept  it  ? 
Yes.  Skimpole  perceives  them.  What  are  they  ?  Skim- 
pole reasons  with  himself,  this  is  a  tamed  lynx,  an  active 
police  officer,  an  intelligent  man,  a  person  of  a  peculiarly 
directed  energy  and  great  subtlety  both  of  conception  and 


430 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


execution,  who  discovers  our  friends  and  enemies  for  us  when 
they  run  away,  recovers  our  property  for  us  when  we  are 
robbed,  avenges  us  comfortably  when  we  are  murdered.  This 
active  police  officer  and  intelligent  man  has  acquired,  in  the 
exercise  of  his  art,  a  strong  faith  in  money  ;  he  finds  it  very 
useful  to  him,  and  he  makes  it  very  useful  to  society.  Shall 
I  shake  that  faith  in  Bucket,  because  I  want  it  myself ;  shall 
I  deliberately  blunt  one  of  Bucket's  weapons  ;  shall  I  possibly 
paralyze  Bucket,  in  his  next  detective  operation  ?  And  again. 
If  it  is  blamable  in  Skimpole  to  take  the  note,  it  is  blam- 
able  in  Bucket  to  offer  the  note  —  much  more  blamable  in 
Bucket,  because  he  is  the  knowing  man.  Now,  Skimpole 
wishes  to  think  well  of  Bucket ;  Skimpole  deems  it  essential, 
in  its  little  place,  to  the  general  cohesion  of  things,  that  he 
should  think  well  of  Bucket.  The  State  expressly  asks 
him  to  trust  to  Bucket.  And  he  does.  And  that's  all  he 
does ! " 

I  had  nothing  to  offer  in  reply  to  this  exposition,  and  there- 
fore  took  my  leave.    Mr.  Skimpole,  however,  who  was  in  [ 
excellent  spirits,  would  not  hear  of   my  returning  home 
attended  only  by  "  Little  Coavinses,"  and  accompanied  me 
himself.    He  entertained  me,  on  the  way,  with  a  variety  of 
delightful  conversation ;  and  assured  me,  at  parting,  that  he  1 
should  never  forget  the  fine  tact  with  which  I  had  found  that  j 
out  for  him  about  our  young  friends. 

As  it  so  happened  that  I  never  saw  Mr.  Skimpole  again,  I  j 
may  at  once  finish  what  I  know  of  his  history.    A  coolness  ; 
arose  between  him  and  my  Guardian,  based  chiefly  on  the  ' 
foregoing  grounds,  and  on  his  having  heartlessly  disregarded 
my  Guardian's  entreaties  (as  we  afterwards  learned  from  Ada) 
in  reference  to  Richard.    His  being  heavily  in  my  Guardian's 
debt,  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  separation.    He  died  some 
five  years  afterwards,  and  left  a  diary  behind  him,  with  letters 
and  other  materials  towards  his  Life ;  which  was  published, 
and  which  showed  him  to  have  been  the  victim  of  a  combina- 
tion on  the  part  of  mankind  against  an  amiable  child.  It 
was  considered  very  pleasant  reading,  but  I  never  read  more 
of  it  myself  than  the  sentence  on  which  I  chanced  to  light 
on  opening  the  book.    It  was  this.    "  Jarndyce,  in  common 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


431 


with  most  other  men  I  have  known,  is  the  Incarnation  of 
Selfishness." 

And  now  I  come  to  a  part  of  my  story,  touching  myself 
very  nearly  indeed,  and  for  which  I  was  quite  unprepared 
when  the  circumstance  occurred.  Whatever  little  lingerings 
may  have  now  and  then  revived  in  my  mind,  associated  with 
my  poor  old  face,  had  only  revived  as  belonging  to  a  part  of 
my  life  that  was  gone  —  gone  like  my  infancy  or  my  child- 
hood. I  have  suppressed  none  of  my  many  weaknesses  on 
that  subject,  but  have  written  them  as  faithfully  as  my 
memory  has  recalled  them.  And  I  hope  to  do,  and  mean  to 
do,  the  same  down  to  the  last  words  of  these  pages ;  which  I 
see  now,  not  so  very  far  before  me. 

The  months  were  gliding  away ;  and  my  dear  girl,  sustained 
by  the  hopes  she  had  confided  to  me,  was  the  same  beautiful 
star  in  the  miserable  corner.  Richard,  more  worn  and  hag- 
gard, haunted  the  Court  day  after  day;  listlessly  sat  there 
the  whole  day  long,  when  he  knew  there  was  no  remote 
chance  of  the  suit  being  mentioned ;  and  became  one  of  the 
stock  sights  of  the  place.  I  wonder  whether  any  of  the 
gentlemen  remembered  him  as  he  was  when  he  first  went 
there. 

So  completely  was  he  absorbed  in  his  fixed  idea,  that  he 
used  to  avow  in  his  cheerful  moments,  that  he  should  never 
have  breathed  the  fresh  air  now  "  but  for  Woodcourt."  It 
was  only  Mr.  Woodcourt  who  could  occasionally  divert  his 
attention,  for  a  few  hours  at  a  time ;  and  rouse  him,  even 
when  he  sunk  into  a  lethargy  of  mind  and  body  tnat  alarmed 
us  greatly,  and  the  returns  of  which  became  more  frequent  as 
the  months  went  on.  My  dear  girl  was  right  in  saying  that 
he  only  pursued  his  errors  the  more  desperately  for  her  sake. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  his  desire  to  retrieve  what  he  had  lost, 
was  rendered  the  more  intense  by  his  grief  for  his  young 
wife,  and  became  like  the  madness  of  a  gamester. 

I  was  there,  as  I  have  mentioned,  at  all  hours.  When  I 
was  there  at  night,  I  generally  went  home  with  Charley  in  a 
coach  ;  sometimes  my  Guardian  would  meet  me  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  we  would  walk  home  together.  One  evening, 
he  had  arranged  to  meet  me  at  eight  o'clock.    I  could  not 


432  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

leave,  as  I  usually  did,  quite  punctually  to  the  time,  for  I  was 
working  for  my  dear  girl,  and  had  a  few  stitches  more  to  do, 
to  finish  what  I  was  about ;  but  it  was  within  a  few  minutes 
of  the  hour,  when  I  bundled  up  my  little  work-basket,  gave 
my  darling  my  last  kiss  for  the  night,  and  hurried  down- 
stairs.   Mr.  Woodcourt  went  with  me,  as  it  was  dusk. 

When  we  came  to  the  usual  place  of  meeting  —  it  was  close 
by,  and  Mr.  Woodcourt  had  often  accompanied  me  before  — 
my  Guardian  was  not  there.  We  waited  half  an  hour,  walk- 
ing up  and  down;  but  there  were  no  signs  of  him.  We 
agreed  that  he  was  either  prevented  from  coming,  or  that  he 
had  come,  and  gone  away ;  and  Mr.  Woodcourt  proposed  to 
walk  home  with  me. 

It  was  the  first  walk  we  had  ever  taken  together,  except 
that  very  short  one  to  the  usual  place  of  meeting.  We  spoke 
of  Richard  and  Ada  the  whole  way.  I  did  not  thank  him,  in 
words,  for  what  he  had  done  —  my  appreciation  of  it  had 
risen  above  all  words  then  —  but  I  hoped  he  might  not  be 
without  some  understanding  of  what  I  felt  so  strongly. 

Arriving  at  home  and  going  up-stairs,  we  found  that  my 
Guardian  was  out,  and  that  Mrs.  Woodcourt  was  out  too.  We 
were  in  the  very  same  room  into  which  I  had  brought  my 
blushing  girl,  when  her  youthful  lover,  now  her  so  altered 
husband,  was  the  choice  of  her  young  heart ;  the  very  same 
room,  from  which  my  Guardian  and  I  had  watched  them  going 
away  through  the  sunlight,  in  the  fresh  bloom  of  their  hope 
and  promise. 

We  were  standing  by  the  opened  window,  looking  down 
into  the  street,  when  Mr.  Woodcourt  spoke  to  me.  I  learned 
in  a  moment  that  he  loved  me.  I  learned  in  a  moment  that 
my  scarred  face  was  all  unchanged  to  him.  I  learned  in  a 
moment  that  what  I  had  thought  was  pity  and  compassion, 
was  devoted,  generous,  faithful  love.  0,  too  late  to  know  it 
now,  too  late,  too  late.  That  was  the  first  ungrateful  thought 
I  had.    Too  late. 

"  When  I  returned/'  he  told  me,  "  when  I  came  back,  no 
richer  than  I  went  away,  and  found  you  newly  risen  from  a 
sick-bed,  yet  so  inspired  by  sweet  consideration  for  others 
and  so  free  from  a  selfish  thought  "  — 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


433 


"  O,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  forbear,  forbear  !  "  I  entreated  him. 
"I  do  not  deserve  your  high  praise.  I  had  many  selfish 
thoughts  at  that  time,  many  ! " 

"  Heaven  knows,  beloved  of  my  life,"  said  he,  "  that  my 
praise  is  not  a  lover's  praise,  but  the  truth.  You  do  not 
know  what  all  around  you  see  in  Esther  Summerson,  how 
many  hearts  she  touches  and  awakens,  what  sacred  admira- 
tion and  what  love  she  wins." 

"  0,  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  cried  I,  "  it  is  a  great  thing  to  win 
love,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  win  love  !  I  am  proud  of  it,  and 
honored  by  it ;  and  the  hearing  of  it  causes  me  to  shed  these 
tears  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  —  joy  that  I  have  won  it, 
sorrow  that  I  have  not  deserved  it  better ;  but  I  am  not  free 
to  think  of  yours." 

I  said  it  with  a  stronger  heart ;  for  when  he  praised  me 
thus,  and  when  I  heard  his  voice  thrill  with  his  belief  that 
what  he  said  was  true,  I  aspired  to  be  more  worthy  of  it.  It 
was  not  too  late  for  that.  Although  I  close  this  unforeseen 
page  in  my  life  to-night,  I  could  be  worthier  of  it  all  through 
my  life.  And  it  was  a  comfort  to  me,  and  an  impulse  to  me, 
and  I  felt  a  dignity  rise  up  within  me  that  was  derived  from 
him,  when  I  thought  so. 

He  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  should  poorly  show  the  trust  that  I  have  in  the  dear  one 
who  will  evermore  be  as  dear  to  me  as  now,"  and  the  deep 
earnestness  with  which  he  said  it,  at  once  strengthened  me 
and  made  me  weep,  "  if,  after  her  assurance  that  sheas  not 
free  to  think  of  my  love,  I  urged  it.  Dear  Esther,  let  me  only 
tell  you  that  the  fond  idea  of  you  which  I  took  abroad,  was 
exalted  to  the  Heavens  when  I  came  home.  I  have  always 
hoped,  in  the  first  hour  when  I  seemed  to  stand  in  &iiy  ray  of 
good  fortune,  to  tell  you  this.  I  have  always  feared  that  I 
should  tell  it  you  in  vain.  My  hopes  and  fears  are  both  ful- 
filled to-night.    I  distress  you.    I  have  said  enough." 

Something  seemed  to  pass  into  my  place  that  was  like  the 
Angel  he  thought  me,  and  I  felt  so  sorrowful  for  the  loss  he 
had  sustained !  I  wished  to  help  him  in  his  trouble,  as  I  had 
wished  to  do  when  he  showed  that  first  commiseration  for  me. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  said  I,  "  before  we  part  to-night, 

VOL.  IT. 


434 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


something  is  left  for  me  to  say.  I  never  could  say  it  as  I  wish 
—  I  never  shall  —  but  "  — 

I  had  to  think  again  of  being  more  deserving  of  his  love, 
and  his  affliction,  before  I  could  go  on. 

" —  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  generosity,  and  I  shall 
treasure  its  remembrance  to  my  dying  hour.  I  know  full  well 
how  changed  I  am,  I  know  you  are  not  unacquainted  with  my 
history,  and  I  know  what  a  noble  love  that  is  which  is  so 
faithful.  What  you  have  said  to  me,  could  have  affected  me 
so  much  from  no  other  lips  ;  for  there  are  none  that  could 
give  it  such  a  value  to  me.  It  shall  not  be  lost.  It  shall 
make  me  better." 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  turned  away  his 
head.    How  could  I  ever  be  worthy  of  those  tears  ? 

"If,  in  the  unchanged  intercourse  we  shall  have  together — 
in  tending  Eichard  and  Ada ;  and  I  hope  in  many  happier 
scenes  of  life  —  you  ever  find  anything  in  me  which  you  can 
honestly  think  is  better  than  it  used  to  be,  believe  that  it  will 
have  sprung  up  from  to-night,  and  that  I  shall  owe  it  to  you. 
And  never  believe,  dear  dear  Mr.  Woodcourt,  never  believe, 
that  I  forget  this  night ;  or  that  while  my  heart  beats,  it  can 
be  insensible  to  the  pride  and  joy  of  having  been  beloved  by 
you." 

He  took  my  hand  and  kissed  it.  He  was  like  himself 
again,  and  I  felt  still  more  encouraged. 

"  I  am  induced,  by  what  you  said  just  now,"  said  I,  "  to 
hope  that  you  have  succeeded  in  your  endeavor  ?  99 

"I  have,"  he  answered.  "With  such  help  from  Mr. 
Jarndyce,  as  you  who  know  him  so  well  can  imagine  him  to 
have  rendered  me,  I  have  succeeded." 

"  Heaven  bless  him  for  it,"  said  I,  giving  him  my  hand, 
"  and  Heaven  bless  you  in  all  you  do  ! " 

"  I  shall  do  it  better  for  the  wish,"  he  answered  ;  "  it  will 
make  me  enter  on  these  new  duties,  as  on  another  sacred  trust 
from  you." 

"  Ah  !  Eichard  ! "  I  exclaimed  involuntarily,  "  what  will  he 
do  when  you  are  gone  ?  " 

"I  am  not  required  to  go  yet;  I  would  not  desert  him, 
dear  Miss  Summerson,  even  if  I  were." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


435 


One  other  thing  I  felt  it  needful  to  touch  upon,  before  he 
left  me.  I  knew  that  I  should  not  be  worthier  of  the  love  I 
could  not  take,  if  I  reserved  it. 

"Mr.  Woodcourt,"  said  I,  "you  will  be  glad  to  know  from 
my  lips  before  I  say  Good-night,  that  in  the  future,  which  is 
clear  and  bright  before  me,  I  am  most  happy,  most  fortunate, 
have  nothing  to  regret  or  to  desire." 

It  was  indeed  a  glad  hearing  to  him,  he  replied. 

"From  my  childhood  I  have  been,"  said  I,  "the  object  of 
the  untiring  goodness  of  the  best  of  human  beings ;  to  whom 
I  am  so  bound  by  every  tie  of  attachment,  gratitude,  and  love, 
that  nothing  I  could  do  in  the  compass  of  a  life  could  express 
the  feelings  of  a  single  day." 

"  I  share  those  feelings,"  he  returned.  "  You  speak  of  Mr. 
Jarndyce." 

"  You  know  his  virtues  well,"  said  I,  "  but  few  can  know 
the  greatness  of  his  character  as  I  know  it.  All  its  highest 
and  best  qualities  have  been  revealed  to  me  in  nothing  more 
brightly,  than  in  the  shaping-out  of  that  future  in  which  I 
am  so  happy.  And  if  your  highest  homage  and  respect  had 
not  been  his  already,  —  which  I  know  they  are,  —  they 
would  have  been  his,  I  think,  on  this  assurance,  and  in  the 
feeling  it  would  have  awakened  in  you  towards  him  for  my 
sake." 

He  fervently  replied,  that  indeed  indeed  they  would  have 
been.    I  gave  him  my  hand  again. 
"  Good-night,"  I  said ;  "  Good-by." 

"  The  first,  until  we  meet  to-morrow  :  the  second,  as  a  fare- 
well to  this  theme  between  us  forever  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Good-night ;  good-by  !  " 

He  left  me,  and  I  stood  at  the  dark  window  watching  the 
street.  His  love,  in  all  its  constancy  and  generosity,  had 
come  so  suddenly  upon  me,  that  he  had  not  left  me  a  minute 
when  my  fortitude  gave  way  again,  and  the  street  was  blotted 
out  by  my  rushing  tears. 

But  they  were  not  tears  of  regret  and  sorrow.  No.  He 
had  called  me  the  beloved  of  his  life,  and  had  said  I  would 
be  evermore  as  dear  to  him  as  I  was  then ;  and  I  felt  as  if  my 


436 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


heart  would  not  hold  the  triumph  of  having  heard  those 
words.  My  first  wild  thought  had  died  away.  It  was  not 
too  late  to  hear  them,  for  it  was  not  too  late  to  be  animated 
by  them  to  be  good,  true,  grateful,  and  contented.  How  easy 
my  path ;  how  much  easier  than  his  ! 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


437 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ANOTHER  DISCOVERY. 

I  had  not  the  courage  to  see  any  one  that  night.  I  had 
not  even  the  courage  to  see  myself,  for  I  was  afraid  that  my 
tears  might  a  little  reproach  me.  I  went  up  to  my  room  in 
the  dark,  and  prayed  in  the  dark,  and  lay  down  in  the  dark  to 
sleep.  I  had  no  need  of  any  light  to  read  my  Guardian's  letter 
by,  for  I  knew  it  by  heart.  I  took  it  from  the  place  where  I 
kept  it,  and  repeated  its  contents  by  its  own  clear  light  of 
integrity  and  love,  and  went  to  sleep  with  it  on  my  pillow. 

I  was  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  called  Charley  to 
come  for  a  walk.  We  bought  flowers  for  the  breakfast-table, 
and  came  back  and  arranged  them,  and  were  as  busy  as  pos- 
sible. We  were  so  early,  that  I  had  good  time  still  for 
Charley's  lesson,  before  breakfast ;  Charley  (who  was  not  in 
the  least  improved  in  the  old  defective  article  of  grammar) 
came  through  it  with  great  applause  ;  and  we  were  altogether 
very  notable.  When  my  Guardian  appeared,  he  said,  "  Why, 
little  woman,  you  look  fresher  than  your  flowers  !  "  And 
Mrs.  Woodcourt  repeated  and  translated  a  passage  from  the 
Mewlinwillinwodd,  expressive  of  my  being  like  a  mountain 
with  the  sun  upon  it. 

This  was  all  so  pleasant,  that  I  hope  it  made  me  more 
like  the  mountain  than  I  had  been  before.  After  breakfast, 
I  waited  my  opportunity,  and  peeped  about  a  little,  until  I 
saw  my  Guardian  in  his  own  room  —  the  room  of  last  night  — 
by  himself.  Then  I  made  an  excuse  to  go  in  with  my  house- 
keeping keys,  shutting  the  door  after  me. 

"  Well,  Dame  Durden  ?  99  said  my  Guardian  ;  the  post  had 
brought  him  several  letters,  and  he  was  writing.  "  You  want 
money  ?  99 

"  No,  indeed,  I  have  plenty  in  hand." 


438 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


"  There  never  was  such  a  Dauie  Durden,"  said  my  Guard- 
ian, "  for  making  money  last." 

He  had  laid  down  his  pen,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
looking  at  me.  I  have  often  spoken  of  his  bright  face,  but  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  it  look  so  bright  and  good.  There 
was  a  high  happiness  upon  it,  which  made  me  think,  "  he  has 
been  doing  some  great  kindness  this  morning." 

"  There  never  was,"  said  my  Guardian,  musing  as  he  smiled 
upon  me,  "such  a  Dame  Durden  for  making  money  last." 

He  had  never  yet  altered  his  old  manner.  I  loved  it,  and 
him,  so  much,  that  when  I  now  went  up  to  him  and  took  my 
usual  chair,  which  was  always  put  at  his  side  —  for  sometimes 
I  read  to  him,  and  sometimes  I  talked  to  him,  and  sometimes 
I  silently  worked  by  him  —  I  hardly  liked  to  disturb  it  by 
laying  my  hand  on  his  breast.  But  I  found  I  did  not  disturb 
it  at  all. 

"  Dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Have 
I  been  remiss  in  anything  ?  " 

"Bemiss  in  anything,  my  dear !  " 

"Have  I  not  been  what  I  have  meant  to  be,  since  —  I 
brought  the  answer  to  your  letter,  Guardian  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  everything  I  could  desire,  my  love." 

"  I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  that,"  I  returned.  "  You 
know,  you  said  to  me,  was  this  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House  ? 
And  I  said,  yes." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  Guardian,  nodding  his  head.  He  had  put 
his  arm  about  me,  as  if  there  were  something  to  protect  me 
from ;  and  looked  in  my  face,  smiling. 

"Since  then,"  said  I,  "we  have  never  spoken  on  the  subject 
except  once." 

"And  then  I  said,  Bleak  House  was  thinning  fast;  and  so 
it  was,  my  dear." 

"  And  /  said,"  I  timidly  reminded  him,  "  but  its  mistress 

remained." 

He  still  held  me,  in  the  same  protecting  manner,  and  wit' 
the  same  bright  goodness  in  his  face. 

"Dear  Guardian,"  said  I,  "I  know  how  you  have  felt  al 
that  has  happened,  and  how  considerate  you  have  been.  A 
so  much  time  has  passed,  and  as  you  spoke  only  this  morning 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


439 


of  my  being  so  well  again,  perhaps  you  expect  me  to  renew 
the  subject.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  do  so.  I  will  be  the  mistress 
of  Bleak  House  when  you  please." 

"  See,"  he  returned  gayly,  "  what  a  sympathy  there  must  be 
between  us  !  I  have  had  nothing  else,  poor  Rick  excepted  — 
it's  a  large  exception  —  in  my  mind.  When  you  came  in,  I 
was  full  of  it.  When  shall  we  give  Bleak  House  its  mistress, 
little  woman  ?  " 

"When  you  please." 

"  Next  month  ?  " 

"Next  month,  dear  Guardian." 

"  The  day  on  which  I  take  the  happiest  and  best  step  of  my 
life  —  the  day  on  which  I  shall  be  a  man  more  exulting  and 
more  enviable  than  any  other  man  in  the  world  —  the  day  on 
which  I  give  Bleak  House  its  little  mistress  —  shall  be  next 
month,  then,"  said  my  Guardian. 

I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  just  as  I 
had  done  on  the  day  when  I  brought  my  answer. 

A  servant  came  to  the  door  to  announce  Mr.  Bucket,  which 
was  quite  unnecessary,  for  Mr.  Bucket  was  already  looking  in 
over  the  servant's  shoulder.  "  Mr.  Jarndyce  and  Miss  Sum- 
merson,"  said  he  rather  out  of  breath,  "  with  all  apologies  for 
intruding,  ivill  you  allow  me  to  order  up  a  person  that's  on  the 
stairs,  and  that  objects  to  being  left  there  in  case  of  becoming 
the  subject  of  observations  in  his  absence  ?  Thank  you.  Be 
so  good  as  chair  that  there  Member  in  this  direction,  will 
you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  beckoning  over  the  banisters. 

This  singular  request  produced  an  old  man  in  a  black  skull- 
cap, unable  to  walk,  who  was  carried  up  by  a  couple  of 
bearers,  and  deposited  in  the  room  near  the  door.  Mr.  Bucket 
immediately  got  rid  of  the  bearers,  mysteriously  shut  the 
door,  and  bolted  it. 

"Now  you  see,  Mr.  Jarndyce,"  he  then  began,  putting 
down  his  hat,  and  opening  his  subject  with  a  flourish  of  his 
well-remembered  finger,  "you  know  me,  and  Miss  Summerson 
knows  me.  This  gentleman  likewise  knows  me,  and  his  name 
is  Smallweed.  The  discounting  line  is  his  line  principally, 
and  he's  what  you  may  call  a  dealer  in  bills.  That's  about 
what  you  are,  you  know,  ain't  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  stop- 


440 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


ping  a  little  to  address  the  gentleman  in  question,  who  was 
exceedingly  suspicious  of  him. 

He  seemed  about  to  dispute  this  designation  of  himself, 
when  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 

"  Now,  Moral,  you  know ! "  said  Mr.  Bucket,  improving  the 
accident.  "  Don't  you  contradict  when  there  ain't  no  occasion, 
and  you  won't  be  took  in  that  way.  Now,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  I 
address  myself  to  you.  I've  been  negotiating  with  this  gentle- 
man on  behalf  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  Baronet;  and  one 
way  and  another  I've  been  in  and  out  and  about  his  premises 
a  deal.  His  premises  are  the  premises  formerly  occupied  by 
Krook,  Marine  Store  Dealer — a  relation  of  this  gentleman's, 
that  you  saw  in  his  lifetime,  if  I  don't  mistake  ?  " 

My  Guardian  replied  "  Yes." 

"  Well !    You  are  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  "  that  ; 
this  gentleman  he  come  into  Krook's  property,  and  a  good 
deal  of  Magpie  property  there  was.    Vast  lots  of  waste  paper  ! 
among  the  rest.    Lord  bless  you,  of  no  use  to  nobody  ! " 

The  cunning  of  Mr.  Bucket's  eye,  and  the  masterly  manner  * 
in  which  he  contrived,  without  a  look  or  a  word  against  which 
his  watchful  auditor  could  protest,  to  let  us  know  that  he 
stated  the  case  according  to  previous  agreement,  and  could 
say  much  more  of  Mr.  Smallweed  if  he  thought  it  advisable,  I 
deprived  us  of  any  merit  in  quite  understanding  him.  His 
difficulty  was  increased  by  Mr.  Smallweed's  being  deaf  as  j 
well  as  suspicious,  and  watching  his  face  with  the  closest  | 
attention. 

"  Among  them  odd  heaps  of  old  papers,  this  gentleman, 
when  he  comes  into  the  property,  naturally  begins  to  rummage, 
don't  you  see  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bucket. 

"To  which?  Say  that' again,"  cried  Mr.  Smallweed,  in  a 
shrill,  sharp  voice. 

"To  rummage,"  repeated  Mr.  Bucket.  "Being  a  prudent 
man,  and  accustomed  to  take  care  of  your  own  affairs,  you 
begin  to  rummage  among  the  papers  as  you  have  come  into ; 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  cried  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"Of  course  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  conversationally, 
"and  much  to  blame  you  would  be  if  you  didn't.    And  so 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


441 


you  chance  to  find,  you  know/'  Mr.  Bucket  went  on,  stooping 
over  him  with  an  air  of  cheerful  raillery  which  Mr.  Smallweed 
by  no  means  reciprocated,  "and  so  you  chance  to  find,  you 
know,  a  paper,  with  the  signature  of  Jarndyce  to  it.  Don't 
you  ?  " 

Mr.  Smallweed  glanced  with  a  troubled  eye  at  us,  and 
grudgingly  nodded  assent. 

"  And  coming  to  look  at  that  paper,  at  your  full  leisure  and 
convenience  —  all  in  good  time,  for  you're  not  curious  to  read 
it,  and  why  should  you  be  !  —  what  do  you  find  it  to  be  but  a 
Will,  you  see.  That's  the  drollery  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
with  the  same  lively  air  of  recalling  a  joke  for  the  enjoyment 
of  Mr.  Smallweed,  who  still  had  the  same  crestfallen  appear- 
ance of  not  enjoying  it  at  all;  "what  do  you  find  it  to  be,  but 
a  Will  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  good  as  a  will,  or  as  anything  else," 
snarled  Mr.  Smallweed. 

Mr.  Bucket  eyed  the  old  man  for  a  moment  —  he  had  slipped 
and  shrunk  down  in  his  chair  into  a  mere  bundle  —  as  if  he 
were  much  disposed  to  pounce  upon  him ;  nevertheless,  he 
continued  to  bend  over  him  with  the  same  agreeable  air, 
keeping  the  corner  of  one  of  his  eyes  upon  us." 

"Notwithstanding  which,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  "you  get  a  little 
doubtful  and  uncomfortable  in  your  mind  about  it,  having  a 
very  tender  mind  of  your  own." 

"  Eh  ?  What  do  you  say  I  have  got  of  my  own  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Smallweed,  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"A  very  tender  mind." 

"  Ho  !    Well,  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Smallweed. 

"  And  as  you've  heard  a  good  deal  mentioned  regarding  a 
celebrated  Chancery  will  case,  of  the  same  name ;  and  as  you 
know  what  a  card  Krook  was  for  buying  all  manner  of  old 
pieces  of  furniter,  and  books,  and  papers,  and  what  not,  and 
never  liking  to  part  with  'em,  and  always  a-going  to  teach 
himself  to  read;  you  begin  to  think  —  and  you  never  was 
more  correct  in  your  born  days  — '  Ecod,  if  I  don't  look  about 
me,  I  may  get  into  trouble  regarding  this  will.' " 

"  Now,  mind  how  you  put  it,  Bucket,"  cried  the  old  man 
anxiously,  with  his  hand  at  his  ear.    "Speak  up;  none  of 


442 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


your  brimstone  tricks.  Pick  me  up;  I  want  to  hear  better. 
0  Lord,  I  am  shaken  to  bits  ! " 

Mr.  Bucket  had  certainly  picked  him  up  at  a  dart.  How- 
ever, as  soon  as  he  could  be  heard  through  Mr.  Smallweed's 
coughing,  and  his  vicious  ejaculations  of  "0  my  bones!  0 
dear !  I've  no  breath  in  my  body !  I'm  worse  than  the 
chattering,  clattering,  brimstone  pig  at  home ! "  Mr.  Bucket 
proceeded,  in  the  same  convivial  manner  as  before. 

"  So,  as  I  happen  to  be  in  the  habit  of  coming  about  your 
premises,  you  take  me  into  your  confidence,  don't  you  ?  " 

I  think  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  an  admission  with 
more  ill-will,  and  a  worse  grace,  than  Mr.  Smallweed  displayed 
when  he  admitted  this;  rendering  it  perfectly  evident  that 
Mr.  Bucket  was  the  very  last  person  he  would  have  thought 
of  taking  into  his  confidence,  if  he  could  by  any  possibility 
have  kept  him  out  of  it. 

"And  I  go  into  the  business  with  you,  —  very  pleasant  we  < 
are  over  it ;  and  I  confirm  you  in  your  well-founded  fears, 
that  you  will-get-yourself-in-to-a-most  precious  line  if  you 
don't  come  out  with  that  there  will,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  ern- 1 
phatically;  "and  accordingly  you  arrange  with  me  that  it 
shall  be  delivered  up  to  this  present  Mr.  Jarndyce,  on  no 
conditions.    If  it  should  prove  to  be  valuable,  you  trusting  ; 
yourself  to  him  for  your  reward ;  that's  about  where  it  is, 
ain't  it  ?  " 

66  That's  what  was  agreed,"  Mr.  Smallweed  assented,  with  < 
the  same  bad  grace. 

"In  consequence  of  which,"  said  Mr.  Bucket,  dismissing] 
his  agreeable  manner  all  at  once,  and  becoming  strictly  busi- 
ness-like, "you've  got  that  will  upon  your  person  at  the  pres- 
ent time ;  and  the  only  thing  that  remains  for  you  to  do  is, 
just  to  Out  with  it !  " 

Having  given  us  one  glance  out  of  the  watching  corner  o 
his  eye,  and  having  given  his  nose  one  triumphant  rub  with 
his  forefinger,  Mr.  Bucket  stood  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  his 
confidential  friend,  and  his  hand  stretched  forth  ready  to  take 
the  paper  and  present  it  to  my  Guardian.  It  was  not  pro 
duced  without  much  reluctance,  and  many  declarations  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Smallweed  that  he  was  a  poor  industrious  man 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


443 


and  that  he  left  it  to  Mr.  Jarndyce's  honor  not  to  let  him  lose 
by  his  honesty.  Little  by  little,  he  very  slowly  took  from  a 
breast-pocket  a  stained  discolored  paper,  which  was  much 
singed  upon  the  outside,  and  a  little  burnt  at  the  edges,  as  if 
it  had  long  ago  been  thrown  upon  a  fire,  and  hastily  snatched 
off  again.  Mr.  Bucket  lost  no  time  in  transferring  this  paper, 
with  the  dexterity  of  a  conjurer,  from  Mr.  Small  weed  to  Mr. 
Jarndyce.  As  he  gave  it  to  my  Guardian,  he  whispered 
behind  his  fingers,  — 

"Hadn't  settled  how  to  make  their  market  of  it.  Quar- 
relled and  hinted  about  it.  I  laid  out  twenty  pound  upon  it. 
First,  the  avaricious  grandchildren  split  upon  him,  on  account 
of  their  objections  to  his  living  so  unreasonably  long,  and 
then  they  split  on  one  another.  Lord !  there  ain't  one  of  the 
family  that  wouldn't  sell  the  other  for  a  pound  or  two,  except 
the  old  lady  —  and  she's  only  out  of  it  because  she's  too  weak 
in  her  mind  to  drive  a  bargain." 

"Mr.  Bucket,"  said  my  Guardian  aloud,  "whatever  the 
worth  of  this  paper  may  be  to  any  one,  my  obligations  are 
great  to  you ;  and  if  it  be  of  any  worth,  I  hold  myself  bound 
to  see  Mr.  Smallweed  remunerated  accordingly." 

"  Not  according  to  your  merits  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Bucket, 
in  friendly  explanation  to  Mr.  Smallweed.  "Don't  you  be 
afraid  of  that.    According  to  its  value." 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  said  my  Guardian.  "You  may 
observe,  Mr.  Bucket,  that  I  abstain  from  examining  this  paper 
myself.  The  plain  truth  is,  I  have  forsworn  and  abjured  the 
whole  business  these  many  years,  and  my  soul  is  sick  of  it. 
But  Miss  Summerson  and  I  will  immediately  place  the  paper 
in  the  hands  of  my  solicitor  in  the  cause,  and  its  existence  shall 
be  made  known  without  delay  to  all  other  parties  interested." 

"  Mr.  Jarndyce  can't  say  fairer  than  that,  you  understand," 
observed  Mr.  Bucket,  to  his  fellow-visitor.  "And  it  being 
now  made  clear  to  you  that  nobody's  a-going  to  be  wronged  — 
which  must  be  a  great  relief  to  your  mind  —  we  may  proceed 
with  the  ceremony  of  chairing  you  home  again." 

He  unbolted  the  door,  called  in  the  bearers,  wished  us  good- 
morning,  and  with  a  look  full  of  meaning,  and  a  crook  of  his 
finger  at  parting,  went  his  way. 


444 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


We  went  our  way  too,  which  was  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Mr.  Kenge  was  disengaged ;  and  we 
found  him  at  his  table  in  his  dusty  room,  with  the  inexpres- 
sive-looking books,  and  the  piles  of  papers.  Chairs  having 
been  placed  for  us  by  Mr.  Guppy,  Mr.  Kenge  expressed  the 
surprise  and  gratification  he  felt  at  the  unusual  sight  of  Mr. 
Jarndyce  in  his  office.  He  turned  over  his  double  eye- 
glass as  he  spoke,  and  was  more  Conversation  Kenge  than 
ever. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  "that  the  genial  influence  of 
Miss  Summerson,  "  he  bowed  to  me,  "  may  have  induced  Mr. 
Jarndyce,"  he  bowed  to  him,  "to  forego  some  little  of  his 
animosity  towards  a  Cause  and  towards  a  Court  which  are  — 
shall  I  say,  which  take  their  place  in  the  stately  vista  of  the 
pillars  of  our  profession  ? f} 

"I  am  inclined  to  think,"  returned  my  Guardian,  "that 
Miss  Summerson  has  seen  too  much  of  the  effects  of  the  Court 
and  the  Cause  to  exert  any  influence  in  their  favor.  Never- 
theless, they  are  a  part  of  the  occasion  of  my  being  here. 
Mr.  Kenge,  before  I  lay  this  paper  on  your  desk  and  have 
done  with  it,  let  me  tell  you  how  it  has  come  into  my  hands." 

He  did  so  shortly  and  distinctly.  "It  could  not,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Kenge,  "have  been  stated  more  plainly  and  to  the  pur- 
pose, if  it  had  been  a  case  at  law."  —  "Did  you  ever  know 
English  law,  or  equity  either,  plain  and  to  the  purpose  ? " 
said  my  Guardian.    "  0  fie  !  "  said  Mr.  Kenge. 

At  first  he  had  not  seemed  to  attach  much  importance  to 
the  paper,  but  when  he  saw  it  he  appeared  more  interested, 
and  when  he  had  opened  and  read  a  little  of  it  through  his 
eye-glass,  he  became  amazed.  "Mr.  Jarndyce,"  he  said, 
looking  off  it,  "you  have  perused  this  ?" 

"  Not  I ! "  returned  my  Guardian. 

"But  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  "it  is  a  Will  of  later 
date  than  any  in  the  suit.  It  appears  to  be  all  in  the  Testa- 
tor's handwriting.  It  is  duly  executed  and  attested.  And 
even  if  intended  to  be  cancelled,  as  might  possibly  be  supposed 
to  be  denoted  by  these  marks  of  fire,  is  is  not  cancelled.  Here 
it  is,  a  perfect  instrument ! " 

" Well ! "  said  my  Guardian.    " What  is  that  to  me?"  r 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


445 


"Mr.  Guppy!"  cried  Mr.  Kenge,  raising  his  voice.  —  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Jarndyce." 
"Sir." 

"  Mr.  Vholes  of  Symond's  Inn.   My  compliments.  Jarndyce 
and  Jarndyce,    Glad  to  speak  with  him." 
Mr.  Guppy  disappeared. 

"  You  ask  me  what  is  this  to  you,  Mr.  Jarndyce.  If  you 
had  perused  this  document,  you  would  have  seen  that  it 
reduces  your  interest  considerably,  though  still  leaving  it  a 
very  handsome  one,  still  leaving  it  a  very  handsome  one," 
said  Mr.  Kenge,  waving  his  hand  persuasively  and  blandly. 
"  You  would  further  have  seen,  that  the  interests  of  Mr. 
Eichard  Carstone,  and  of  Miss  Ada  Clare,  now  Mrs.  Richard 
Carstone,  are  very  materially  advanced  by  it." 

"  Kenge,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  if  all  the  flourishing  wealth 
that  the  suit  brought  into  this  vile  court  of  Chancery  could 
fall  to  my  two  young  cousins,  I  should  be  well  contented.  But 
do  you  ask  me  to  believe  that  any  good  is  to  come  of  Jarndyce 
and  Jarndyce  ?  " 

"  0  really,  Mr.  Jarndyce  !  Prejudice,  prejudice.  My  dear 
sir,  this  is  a  very  great  country,  a  very  great  country.  Its 
system  of  equity  is  a  very  great  system,  a  very  great  system. 
Really,  really ! " 

My  Guardian  said  no  more,  and  Mr.  Vholes  arrived. 
He  was  modestly  impressed  by  Mr.  Kenge's  professional 
eminence. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
take  a  chair  here  by  me,  and  look  over  this  paper  ?  " 

Mr.  Vholes  did  as  he  was  asked,  and  seemed  to  read  it  every 
word.  He  was  not  excited  by  it ;  but  he  was  not  excited  by 
anything.  When  he  had  well  examined  it,  he  retired  with 
Mr.  Kenge  into  a  window,  and  shading  his  mouth  with  his 
black  glove,  spoke  to  him  at  some  length.  I  was  not  surprised 
to  observe  Mr.  Kenge  inclined  to  dispute  what  he  said  before 
he  had  said  much,  for  I  knew  that  no  two  people  ever  did 
agree  about  anything  in  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  But  he 
seemed  to  get  the  better  of  Mr.  Kenge  too,  in  a  conversation 
that  sounded  as  if  it  were  almost  composed  of  the  words, 
"Receiver-General,"  " Accountant-General,"  "Report,"  "Es- 


446 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


tate,"  and  "Costs."  When  they  had  finished,  they  came  back 
to  Mr.  Kenge's  table,  and  spoke  aloud. 

"Well!  But  this  is  a  very  remarkable  document,  Mr. 
Vholes  ?  "  said  Mr.  Kenge. 

Mr.  Vholes  said,  "Very  much  so." 

"  And  a  very  important  document,  Mr.  Vholes  ?  "  said  Mr. 

Kenge. 

Again  Mr.  Vholes  said,  "  Very  much  so." 

"  And  as  you  say,  Mr.  Vholes,  when  the  Cause  is  in  the 
paper  next  Term,  this  document  will  be  an  unexpected  and 
interesting  feature  in  it,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  looking  loftily  at 
my  Guardian. 

Mr.  Vholes  was  gratified,  as  a  smaller  practitioner  striving 
to  keep  respectable,  to  be  confirmed  in  any  opinion  of  his  own 
by  such  an  authority. 

"And  when,"  asked  my  Guardian,  rising  after  a  pause, 
during  which  Mr.  Kenge  had  rattled  his  money,  and  Mr. 
Vholes  had  picked  his  pimples,  "  when  is  next  term  ?  " 

"  Next  Term,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  will  be  next  month,"  said  Mr. 
Kenge.  "Of  course  we  shall  at  once  proceed  to  do  what  is 
necessary  with  this  document,  and  to  collect  the  necessary 
evidence  concerning  it ;  and  of  course  you  will  receive  our 
usual  notification  of  the  Cause  being  in  the  paper." 

"  To  which  I  shall  pay,  of  course,  my  usual  attention." 

"Still  bent,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenge,  showing  us 
through  the  outer  office  to  the  door,  "  still  bent,  even  with 
your  enlarged  mind,  on  echoing  a  popular  prejudice  ?  We 
are  a  prosperous  community,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  a  very  prosperous 
community.  We  are  a  great  country,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  we  are  a 
very  great  country.  This  is  a  great  system,  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
and  would  you  wish  a  great  country  to  have  a  little  system  ? 
Now,  really,  really  !  " 

He  said  this  at  the  stair-head,  gently  moving  his  right  hand 
as  if  it  were  a  silver  trowel,  with  which  to  spread  the  cement 
of  his  words  on  the  structure  of  the  system,  and  consolidate  it 
for  a  thousand  ages. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


447 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

STEEL  AND  IRON. 

George's  shooting-gallery  is  to  let,  and  the  stock  is  sold 
off,  and  George  himself  is  at  Chesney  Wold,  attending  on  Sir 
Leicester  in  his  rides,  and  riding  very  near  his  bridle-rein, 
because  of  the  uncertain  hand  with  which  he  guides  his  horse. 
But  not  to-day  is  George  so  occupied.  He  is  journeying 
to-day  into  the  iron  country  farther  north,  to  look  about  him. 

As  he  comes  into  the  iron  country  farther  north,  such  fresh 
green  woods  as  those  of  Chesney  Wold  are  left  behind ;  and 
coalpits  and  ashes,  high  chimneys  and  red  bricks,  blighted 
verdure,  scorching  fires,  and  a  heavy  never  lightening  cloud  of 
smoke,  become  the  features  of  the  scenery.  Among  such 
objects  rides  the  trooper,  looking  about  him,  and  always  look- 
ing for  something  he  has  come  to  find. 

At  last,  on  the  black  canal  bridge  of  a  busy  town,  with  a 
clang  of  iron  in  it,  and  more  fires  and  more  smoke  than  he 
has  seen  yet,  the  trooper,  swart  with  the  dust  of  the  coal 
roads,  checks  his  horse,  and  asks  the  workman  does  he  know 
the  name  of  Rouncewell  thereabouts  ? 

"  Why,  master,"  quoth  the  workman,  "  do  I  know  my  own 
name  ?  " 

"  'Tis  so  well  known  here,  is  it,  comrade  ? "  asked  the 
trooper. 

"  Eouncewells  ?    Ah  !  you're  right." 

"  And  where  might  he  be  now  ?  "  asks  the  trooper,  with  a 
glance  before  him. 

"  The  bank,  the  factory,  or  the  house  ?  "  the  workman  wants 
to  know. 

"  Hum  !  Eouncewells  is  so  great  apparently,"  mutters  the 
trooper,  stroking  his  chin,  "  that  I  have  as  good  as  half  a 
mind  to  go  back  again.  Why  I  don't  know  which  I  want. 
Should  I  find  Mr.  Eouncewell  at  the  factory,  do  you  think  ?  " 


448  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

"  'Tain't  easy  to  say  where  you'd  find  him  —  at  this  time  of  j 
the  day  you  might  find  either  him  or  his  son  there,  if  he's  in 
town ;  but  his  contracts  take  him  away." 

And  which  is  the  factory  ?  Why,  he  sees  those  chimneys 
—  the  tallest  ones  !  Yes,  he  sees  them.  Well !  let  him  keep 
his  eye  on  those  chimneys,  going  on  as  straight  as  ever  he 
can,  and  presently  he'll  see  'em  down  a  turning  on  the  left, 
shut  in  by  a  great  brick  wall  which  forms  one  side  of  the 
street.    That's  Eouncewells. 

The  trooper  thanks  his  informant,  and  rides  slowly  on, 
looking  about  him.  He  does  not  turn  back,  but  puts  up  his 
horse  (and  is  much  disposed  to  groom  him  too)  at  a  public- 
house  where  some  of  Rouncewell's  hands  are  dining,  as  the 
hostler  tells  him.  Some  of  Kounce  well's  hands  have  just 
knocked  off  for  dinner-time,  and  seem  to  be  invading  the 
whole  town.  They  are  very  sinewy  and  strong,  are  Kounce-  ; 
well's  hands  —  a  little  sooty  too. 

He  comes  to  a  gateway  in  the  brick  wall,  looks  in,  and  sees 
a  great  perplexity  of  iron  lying  about  in  every  stage,  and  in  a  i 
vast  variety  of  shapes  ;  in  bars,  in  wedges,  in  sheets  ;  in  tanks, 
in  boilers,  in  axles,  in  wheels,  in  cogs,  in  cranks,  in  rails ; 
twisted  and  wrenched  into  eccentric  and  perverse  forms,  as 
separate  parts  of  machinery  ;  mountains  of  it  broken  up,  and  I 
rusty  in  its  age  ;  distant  furnaces  of  it  glowing  and  bubbling 
in  its  youth  ;  bright  fireworks  of  it  showering  about,  under  j 
the  blows  of  the  steam  hammer  ;  red-hot  iron,  white-hot  iron,  j 
cold-black  iron ;  an  iron  taste,  an  iron  smell,  and  a  Babel  of  I 
iron  sounds. 

"  This  is  a  place  to  make  a  man's  head  ache,  too  !  "  says  the 
trooper,  looking  about  him  for  a  counting-house.  "Who 
comes  here  ?  This  is  very  like  me  before  I  was  set  up.  This 
ought  to  be  my  nephew,  if  likenesses  run  in  families.  Your 
servant,  sir." 

"  Yours,  sir.    Are  you  looking  for  any  one  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me.     Young  Mr.  Eouncewell,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  was  looking  for  your  father,  sir.    I  wished  to  have  a 
word  with  him." 

The  young  man,  telling  him  he  is  fortunate  in  his  choice  of 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


449 


a  time,  for  his  father  is  there,  leads  the  way  to  the  office 
where  he  is  to  be  found.  "  Very  like  me  before  I  was  set  up 
—  devilish  like  me  ! "  thinks  the  trooper,  as  he  follows.  They 
come  to  a  building  in  the  yard  ;  with  an  office  on  an  upper 
floor.  At  sight  of  the  gentleman  in  the  office,  Mr.  George 
turns  very  red. 

"  What  name  shall  I  say  to  my  father  ?  w  asks  the  young  man. 

George,  full  of  the  idea  of  iron,  in  desperation  answers 
"  Steel,"  and  is  so  presented.  He  is  left  alone  with  the  gen- 
tleman in  the  office,  who  sits  at  a  table  with  account-books 
before  him,  and  some  sheets  of  paper,  blotted  with  hosts  of 
figures  and  drawings  of  cunning  shapes.  It  is  a  bare  office, 
with  bare  windows,  looking  on  the  iron  view  below.  Tumbled 
together  on  the  table  are  some  pieces  of  iron,  purposely 
broken  to  be  tested,  at  various  periods  of  their  service,  in 
various  capacities.  There  is  iron-dust  on  everything;  and 
the  smoke  is  seen,  through  the  windows,  rolling  heavily  out 
of  the  tall  chimneys,  to  mingle  with  the  smoke  from  a  vapor- 
ous Babylon  of  other  chimneys. 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Mr.  Steel/'  says  the  gentleman, 
when  his  visitor  has  taken  a  rusty  chair. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bouncewell,"  George  replies,  leaning  forward, 
with  his  left  arm  on  his  knee,  and  his  hat  in  his  hand  ;  and 
very  chary  of  meeting  his  brother's  eye  ;  "  I  am  not  without 
my  expectations,  that  in  the  present  visit  I  may  prove  to  be 
more  free  than  welcome.  I  have  served  as  a  dragoon  in  my 
day ;  and  a  comrade  of  mine  that  I  was  once  rather  partial 
to,  was,  if  I  don't  deceive  myself,  a  brother  of  yours.  I 
believe  you  had  a  brother  who  gave  his  family  some  trouble, 
and  ran  away,  and  never  did  any  good  but  in  keeping  away  ?  " 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,"  returns  the  ironmaster,  in  an  altered 
voice,  "that  your  name  is  Steel  ?" 

The  trooper  falters,  and  looks  at  him.  His  brother  starts 
up,  calls  him  by  his  name,  and  grasps  him  by  both  hands. 

"  You  are  too  quick  for  me  !  "  cries  the  trooper,  with  the 
tears  springing  out  of  his  eyes.  "How  do  you  do,  my  dear 
old  fellow.  I  never  could  have  thought  you  would  have  been 
half  so  glad  to  see  me  as  all  this.  :  How  do  you  do,  my  dear 
old  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ! " 

VOL.  II. 


450 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


They  shake  hands,  and  embrace  each  other,  over  and  over 
again ;  the  trooper  still  coupling  his  "  How  do  you  do,  my 
dear  old  fellow  ! "  with  his  protestation  that  he  never  thought 
his  brother  would  have  been  half  so  glad  to  see  him  as  all 
this  ! 

"  So  far  from  it,"  he  declares,  at  the  end  of  a  full  account 
of  what  has  preceded  his  arrival  there,  "  I  had  very  little  idea 
of  making  myself  known.  I  thought,  if  you  took  by  any 
means  forgivingly  to  my  name,  I  might  gradually  get  myself 
up  to  the  point  of  writing  a  letter.  But  I  should  not  have 
been  surprised,  brother,  if  you  had  considered  it  anything  but 
welcome  news  to  hear  of  me." 

"  We  will  show  you  at  home  what  kind  of  news  we  think 
it,  George,"  returns  his  brother.  "This  is  a  great  day  at 
home,  and  you  could  not  have  arrived,  you  bronzed  old  soldier, 
on  a  better.  I  make  an  agreement  with  my  son  Watt  to-day, 
that  on  this  day  twelvemonth  he  shall  marry  as  pretty  and  as 
good  a  girl  as  you  have  seen  in  all  your  travels.  She  goes  to 
Germany  to-morrow,  with  one  of  your  nieces,  for  a  little 
polishing  up  in  her  education.  We  make  a  feast  of  the  event, 
and  you  will  be  made  the  hero  of  it." 

Mr.  George  is  so  entirely  overcome  at  first  by  this  prospect, 
that  he  resists  the  proposed  honor  with  great  earnestness. 
Being  overborne,  however,  by  his  brother  and  his  nephew  — 
concerning  whom  he  renews  his  protestations  that  he  never 
could  have  thought  they  would  have  been  half  so  glad  to  see 
him  —  he  is  taken  home  to  an  elegant  house,  in  all  the  arrange- 
ments of  which  there  is  to  be  observed  a  pleasant  mixture  of 
the  originally  simple  habits  of  the  father  and  mother,  with 
such  as  are  suited  to  their  altered  station  and  the  higher  for- 
tunes of  their  children.  Here,  Mr.  George  is  much  dismayed 
by  the  graces  and  accomplishments  of  his  nieces  that  are ; 
and  by  the  beauty  of  Rosa,  his  niece  that  is  to  be ;  and  by 
the  affectionate  salutations  of  these  young  ladies,  which  he 
receives  in  a  sort  of  dream.  He  is  sorely  taken  aback,  too, 
by  the  dutiful  behavior  of  his  nephew;  and  has  a  woful 
consciousness  upon  him  of  being  a  scapegrace.  However, 
there  is  great  rejoicing,  and  a  very  hearty  company,  and  infinite 
enjoyment;  and  Mr.  George  comes  bluff  and  martial  through 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


451 


it  all ;  and  his  pledge  to  be  present  at  the  marriage  and  give 
away  the  bride,  is  received  with  universal  favor.  A  whirling 
head  has  Mr.  George  that  night,  when  he  lies  down  in  the 
state-bed  of  his  brother's  house,  to  think  of  all  these  things, 
and  to  see  the  images  of  his  nieces  (awful  all  the  evening  in 
their  floating  muslins),  waltzing,  after  the  German  manner, 
over  his  counterpane. 

The  brothers  are  closeted  next  morning  in  the  ironmaster's 
room  ;  where  the  elder  is  proceeding,  in  his  clear  sensible  way, 
to  show  how  he  thinks  he  may  best  dispose  of  George  in  his 
business,  when  George  squeezes  his  hand  and  stops  him. 

"  Brother,  I  thank  you  a  million  times  for  your  more  than 
brotherly  welcome,  and  a  million  times  more  to  that  for  your 
more  than  brotherly  intentions.  But  my  plans  are  made. 
Before  I  say  a  word  as  to  them,  I  wish  to  consult  you  upon 
one  family  point.  How,"  says  the  trooper,  folding  his  arms, 
and  looking  with  indomitable  firmness  at  his  brother,  "  how 
is  my  mother  to  be  got  to  scratch  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,  George,"  replies  the 
ironmaster. 

"  I  say,  brother,  how  is  my  mother  to  be  got  to  scratch  me  ? 
She  must  be  got  to  do  it,  somehow." 

"  Scratch  you  out  of  her  will,  I  think  you  mean  ?  99 

"  Of  course  I  do.  In  short,"  says  the  trooper,  folding  his 
arms  more  resolutely  yet,  "I  mean  —  to  —  scratch  me  ?" 

"My  dear  George,"  returns  his  brother,  "is  it  so  indispen- 
sable that  you  should  undergo  that  process  ?  " 

"  Quite !  Absolutely !  I  couldn't  be  guilty  of  the  mean- 
ness of  coming  back  without  it.  I  should  never  be  safe  not 
to  be  off  again.  I  have  not  sneaked  home  to  rob  your 
children,  if  not  yourself,  brother,  of  your  rights.  I,  who 
forfeited  mine,  long  ago !  If  I  am  to  remain,  and  hold  up 
my  head,  I  must  be  scratched.  Come.  You  are  a  man  of 
celebrated  penetration  and  intelligence,  and  you  can  tell  me 
how  it's  to  be  brought  about." 

"I  can  tell  you.  George,"  replies  the  ironmaster,  deliber- 
ately, "how  it  is  not  to  be  brought  about,  which  I  hope 
may  answer  the  purpose  as  well.  Look  at  our  mother,  think 
of  her,  recall  her  emotion  when  she  recovered  you.    Do  you 


452 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


believe  there  is  a  consideration  in  the  world  that  would 
induce  her  to  take  such  a  step  against  her  favorite  son  ?  Do 
you  believe  there  is  any  chance  of  her  consent,  to  balance 
against  the  outrage  it  would  be  to  her  (loving  dear  old  lady !) 
to  propose  it  ?  If  you  do,  you  are  wrong.  No,  George ! 
You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  remain  smscratched.  I 
think,"  there  is  an  amused  smile  on  the  ironmaster's  face,  as 
he  watches  his  brother,  who  is  pondering  deeply  disappointed, 
"  I  think  you  may  manage  almost  as  well  as  if  the  thing  were 
done,  though." 
"  How,  brother  ?  " 

"  Being  bent  upon  it,  you  can  dispose  by  will  of  anything 
you  have  the  misfortune  to  inherit,  in  any  way  you  like,  you 
know." 

"  That's  true ! 99  says  the  trooper,  pondering  again.  Then 
he  wistfully  asks,  with  his  hand  on  his  brother's,  "  Would 
you  mind  mentioning  that,  brother,  to  your  wife  and 
family  ?  " 

"Not  at  all." 

"Thank  you.  You  wouldn't  object  to  say,  perhaps,  that 
although  an  undoubted  vagabond,  I  am  a  vagabond  of  the 
harum  scarum  order,  and  not  of  the  mean  sort  ?  " 

The  ironmaster,  repressing  his  amused  smile,  assents. 

"Thank  you.    Thank  you.    It's  a  weight  off  my  mind,"  I 
says  the  trooper,  with  a  heave  of  his  chest  as  he  unfolds  his 
arms,  and  puts  a  hand  on  each  leg ;  "  though  I  had  set  my  I 
heart  on  being  scratched,  too !  " 

The  brothers  are  very  like  each  other,  sitting  face  to  face  ; 
but  a  certain  massive  simplicity,  and  absence  of  usage  in  the 
ways  of  the  world,  is  all  on  the  trooper's  side. 

"  Well,"  he  proceeds,  throwing  off  his  disappointment, 
"next  and  last,  those  plans  of  mine.  You  have  been  so 
brotherly  as  to  propose  to  me  to  fall  in  here,  and  take  my 
place  among  the  products  of  your  perseverance  and  sense.  I 
thank  you  heartily.  It's  more  than  brotherly,  as  I  said  be- 
fore ;  and  I  thank  you  heartily  for  it,"  shaking  him  a  long 
time  by  the  hand.  "  But  the  truth  is,  brother,  I  am  a  —  I  am 
a  kind  of  a  Weed,  and  it's  f  oo  late  to  plant  me  in  a  regular 
garden." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


453 


"My  dear  George/'  returns  the  elder,  concentrating  his 
strong  steady  brow  upon  him,  and  smiling  confidently ;  "  leave 
that  to  ine,  and  let  me  try." 

George  shakes  his  head.  "You  could  do  it,  I  have  not  a 
doubt,  if  anybody  could;  but  it's  not  to  be  done.  Not 
to  be  done,  sir !  Whereas  it  so  falls  out,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  I  am  able  to  be  of  some  trifle  of  use  to  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock  since  his  illness  —  brought  on  by  family  sorrows ; 
and  that  he  would  rather  have  that  help  from  our  mother's 
son  than  from  anybody  else." 

"  Well,  my  dear  George,"  returns  the  other,  with  a  very 
slight  shade  upon  his  open  face,  "  if  you  prefer  to  serve  in 
Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  household  brigade  "  — 

"There  it  is,  brother!"  cries  the  trooper,  checking  him, 
with  his  hand  upon  his  knee  again  :  "  there  it  is.  You  don't 
take  kindly  to  that  idea ;  I  don't  mind  it.  You  are  not  used 
to  being  officered  ;  I  am.  Everything  about  you  is  in  perfect 
order  and  discipline ;  everything  about  me  requires  to  be 
kept  so.  We  are  not  accustomed  to  carry  things  with  the 
same  hand,  or  to  look  at  'em  from  the  same  point.  I  don't 
say  much  about  my  garrison  manners,  because  I  found  myself 
pretty  well  at  my  ease  last  night,  and  they  wouldn't  be 
noticed  here,  I  dare  say,  once  and  away.  But  I  shall  get  on 
best  at  Chesney  Wold  —  where  there's  more  room  for  a  Weed 
than  there  is  here  ;  and  the  dear  old  lady  will  be  made  happy 
besides.  Therefore  I  accept  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock's  pro- 
posals. When  I  come  over  next  year  to  give  away  the  bride, 
or  whenever  I  come,  I  shall  have  the  sense  to  keep  the 
household  brigade  in  ambuscade,  and  not  to  manoeuvre  it  on 
your  ground.  I  thank  you  heartily  again,  and  am  proud  to 
think  of  the  Rouncewells  as  they'll  be  founded  by  you." 

"You  know  yourself,  George,"  says  the  elder  brother, 
returning  the  grip  of  his  hand,  "  and  perhaps  you  know  me 
better  than  I  know  myself.  Take  your  way.  So  that  we 
don't  quite  lose  one  another  again,  take  your  way." 

"  No  fear  of  that !  "  returns  the  trooper.  "  Now,  before  I 
turn  my  horse's  head  home'ards,  brother,  I  will  ask  you  —  if 
you'll  be  so  good  — to  look  over  a  letter  for  me.  I  brought  it 
with  me  to  send  from  these  parts,  as  Chesney  Wold  might  be 


454 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


a  painful  name  just  now  to  the  person  it's  written  to.  I 
am  not  much  accustomed  to  correspondence  myself,  and  I  am 
particular  respecting  this  present  letter,  because  I  want  it  to 
be  both  straightforward  and  delicate." 

Herewith  he  hands  a  letter,  closely  written  in  somewhat 
pale  ink  but  in  a  neat  round  hand,  to  the  ironmaster,  who 
reads  as  follows  :  — 

Miss  Esther  Summerson,  —  A  communication  having  been  made  to 
me  by  Inspector  Bucket  of  a  letter  to  myself  being  found  among  the 
papers  of  a  certain  person,  I  take  the  liberty  to  make  known  to  you  that 
it  was  but  a  few  lines  of  instruction  from  abroad,  when,  where,  and  how 
to  deliver  an  enclosed  letter  to  a  young  and  beautiful  lady,  then  unmar- 
ried in  England.    I  duly  observed  the  same. 

I  further  take  the  liberty  to  make  known  to  you,  that  it  was  got  from 
me  as  a  proof  of  handwriting  only,  and  that  otherwise  I  would  not  have 
given  it  up  as  appearing  to  be  the  most  harmless  in  my  possession,  with- 
out being  previously  shot  through  the  heart. 

I  further  take  the  liberty  to  mention,  that  if  I  could  have  supposed 
a  certain  unfortunate  gentleman  to  have  been  in  existence,  I  never  could 
and  never  would  have  rested  until  I  had  discovered  his  retreat,  and 
shared  my  last  farthing  with  him,  as  my  duty  and  my  inclination  would 
have  equally  been.  But  he  was  (officially)  reported  drowned,  and 
assuredly  went  over  the  side  of  a  transport  ship  at  night  in  an  Irish 
harbor,  within  a  few  hours  of  her  arrival  from  the  West  Indies,  as  I 
have  myself  heard  both  from  officers  and  men  on  board,  and  know  to 
have  been  (officially)  confirmed. 

I  further  take  the  liberty  to  state  that  in  my  humble  quality  as  one 
of  the  rank  and  file,  I  am,  and  shall  ever  continue  to  be,  your  thoroughly 
devoted  and  admiring  servant,  and  that  I  esteem  the  qualities  you  pos- 
sess above  all  others,  far  beyond  the  limits  of  the  present  dispatch. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

George. 

"  A  little  formal,"  observes  the  elder  brother,  refolding  it 
with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  But  nothing  that  might  not  be  sent  to  a  pattern  young 
lady  ?  "  asks  the  younger. 

"  Nothing  at  all." 

Therefore  it  is  sealed,  and  deposited  for  posting  among  the 
iron  correspondence  of  the  day.  This  done,  Mr.  George  takes 
a  hearty  farewell  of  the  family  party,  and  prepares  to  saddle 
and  mount.  His  brother,  however,  unwilling  to  part  with 
him  so  soon,  proposes  to  ride  with  him  in  a  light  open  carriage 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


455 


to  the  place  where  he  will  bait  for  the  night,  and  there 
remain  with  him  until  morning:  a  servant  riding,  for  so 
much  of  the  journey,  on  the  thoroughbred  old  gray  from 
Chesney  Wold.  The  offer  being  gladly  accepted,  is  followed 
by  a  pleasant  ride,  a  pleasant  dinner,  and  a  pleasant  breakfast, 
all  in  brotherly  communion.  Then  they  once  more  shake 
hands  long  and  heartily,  and  part ;  the  ironmaster  turning  his 
face  to  the  smoke  and  fires,  and  the  trooper  to  the  green 
country.  Early  in  the  afternoon,  the  subdued  sound  of 
his  heavy  military  trot  is  heard  on  the  turf  in  the  avenue,  as 
he  rides  on  with  imaginary  clank  and  jingle  of  accoutrements 
under  the  old  elm-trees. 


456  BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Esther's  narrative. 

Soon  after  I  had  had  that  conversation  with  my  Guardian, 
he  put  a  sealed  paper  in  my  hand  one  morning,  and  said, 
"This  is  for  next  month,  my  dear."  I  found  in  it  two 
hundred  pounds. 

I  now  began  very  quietly  to  make  such  preparations  as  I 
thought  were  necessary.  Regulating  my  purchases  by  my 
Guardian's  taste,  which  I  knew  very  well  of  course,  I 
arranged  my  wardrobe  to  please  him,  and  hoped  I  should  be 
highly  successful.  I  did  it  all  so  quietly,  because  I  was  not 
quite  free  from  my  old  apprehension  that  Ada  would  be  rather 
sorry,  and  because  my  Guardian  was  so  quiet  himself.  I 
had  no  doubt  that  under  all  the  circumstances  we  should  be 
married  in  the  most  private  and  simple  manner.  Perhaps  I 
should  only  have  to  say  Ada,  "  Would  you  like  to  come 
and  see  me  married  to-morrow,  my  pet  ? 99  Perhaps  our 
wedding  might  even  be  as  unpretending  as  her  own,  and  I 
might  not  find  it  necessary  to  say  anything  about  it  until  it 
was  over.  I  thought  that  if  I  were  to  choose,  I  would  like 
this  best. 

The  only  exception  I  made  was  Mrs.  Woodcourt.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  going  to  be  married  to  my  Guardian,  and  that 
we  had  been  engaged  some  time.  She  highly  approved.  She 
could  never  do  enough  for  me ;  and  was  remarkably  softened 
now,  in  comparison  with  what  she  had  been  when  we  first 
knew  her.  There  was  no  trouble  she  would  not  have  taken 
to  have  been  of  use  to  me ;  but  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  only 
allowed  her  to  take  as  little,  as  gratified  her  kindness  without 
tasking  it. 

Of  course  this  was  not  a  time  to  neglect  my  Guardian ;  and 
of  course  it  was  not  a  time  for  neglecting  my  darling.    So  I 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


457 


had  plenty  of  occupation  —  which  I  was  glad  of ;  and  as  to 
Charley,  she  was  absolutely  not  to  be  seen  for  needlework. 
To  surround  herself  with  great  heaps  of  it  —  baskets  full  and 
tables  full  —  and  do  a  little,  and  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in 
staring  with  her  round  eyes  at  what  there  was  to  do,  and 
persuade  herself  that  she  was  going  to  do  it,  were  Charley's 
great  dignities  and  delights. 

Meanwhile,  I  must  say,  I  could  not  agree  with  my  Guardian 
on  the  subject  of  the  Will,  and  I  had  some  sanguine  hopes  of 
Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  Which  of  us  was  right  will  soon 
appear,  but  I  certainly  did  encourage  expectations.  In 
Eichard,  the  discovery  gave  occasion  for  a  burst  of  business 
and  agitation  that  buoyed  him  up  for  a  little  time ;  but  he 
had  lost  the  elasticity  even  of  hope  now,  and  seemed  to  me 
to  retain  only  its  feverish  anxieties.  From  something  my 
Guardian  said  one  day,  when  we  were  talking  about  this,  I 
understood  that  my  marriage  would  not  take  place  until  after 
the  Term-time  we  had  been  told  to  look  forward  to ;  and  I 
thought  the  more,  for  that,  how  rejoiced  I  should  be  if  I 
could  be  married  when  Richard  and  Ada  were  a  little  more 
prosperous. 

The  Term  was  very  near  indeed,  when  my  Guardian  was 
called  out  of  town,  and  went  down  into  Yorkshire  on  Mr. 
Woodcourt's  business.  He  had  told  me  beforehand  that  his 
presence  there  would  be  necessary.  I  had  just  come  in  one 
night  from  my  dear  girl's,  and  was  sitting  in  the  midst  of  all 
my  new  clothes,  looking  at  them  all  around  me,  and  thinking, 
when  a  letter  from  my  Guardian  was  brought  to  me.  It 
asked  me  to  join  him  in  the  country ;  and  mentioned  by  what 
stage-coach  my  place  was  taken,  and  at  what  time  in  the 
morning  I  should  have  to  leave  town.  It  added  in  a  post- 
script that  I  would  not  be  many  hours  from  Ada. 

I  expected  few  things  less  than  a  journey  at  that  time,  but 
I  was  ready  for  it  in  half  an  hour,  and  set  off  as  appointed 
early  next  morning.  I  travelled  all  day,  wondering  all  day 
what  I  could  be  wanted  for  at  such  a  distance  ;  now  I  thought 
it  might  be  for  this  purpose,  and  now  I  thought  it  might  be 
for  that  purpose;  but  I  was  never,  never,  never  near  the 
truth. 


458 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


It  was  night  when  I  came  to  my  journey's  end,  and  found 
my  Guardian  waiting  for  me.  This  was  a  great  relief,  for 
towards  evening  I  had  begun  to  fear  (the  more  so  as  his 
letter  was  a  very  short  one)  that  he  might  be  ill.  However, 
there  he  was,  as  well  as  it  was  possible  to  be ;  and  when  I 
saw  his  genial  face  again  at  its  brightest  and  best,  I  said  to 
myself  he  had  been  doing  some  other  great  kindness.  Not 
that  it  required  much  penetration  to  say  that,  because  I  knew 
that  his  being  there  at  all  was  an  act  of  kindness. 

Supper  was  ready  at  the  hotel,  and  when  we  were  alone  at 
table  he  said,  — 

"  Full  of  curiosity  no  doubt,  little  woman,  to  know  why  I 
have  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"Well,  Guardian,"  said  I,  "without  thinking  myself  a 
Fatima,  or  you  a  Blue  Beard,  I  am  a  little  curious  about  it." 

"  Then  to  insure  your  night's  rest,  my  love,"  he  returned, 
gayly,  "I  won't  wait  until  to-morrow  to  tell  you.  I  have 
very  much  wished  to  express  to  Woodcourt,  somehow,  my 
sense  of  his  humanity  to  poor  unfortunate  Jo,  his  inestimable 
services  to  my  young  cousins,  and  his  value  to  us  all.  When 
it  was  decided  that  he  should  settle  here,  it  came  into  my 
head  that  I  might  ask  his  acceptance  of  some  unpretending 
and  suitable  little  place,  to  lay  his  own  head  in.  I  therefore 
caused  such  a  place  to  be  looked  out  for,  and  such  a  place  was 
found  on  very  easy  terms,  and  I  have  been  touching  it  up  for 
him  and  making  it  habitable.  However,  when  I  walked  over 
it  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  it  was  reported  ready,  I  found 
that  I  was  not  housekeeper  enough  to  know  whether  things 
were  all  as  they  ought  to  be.  So  I  sent  off  for  the  best  little 
housekeeper  that  could  possibly  be  got,  to  come  and  give  me 
her  advice  and  opinion.  And  here  she  is,"  said  my  Guardian, 
"  laughing  and  crying  both  together  !  " 

Because  he  was  so  dear,  so  good,  so  admirable.  I  tried  to  tell 
him  what  I  thought  of  him,  but  I  could  not  articulate  a  word. 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  my  Guardian.  "  You  make  too  much  of 
it,  little  woman.  Why  how  you  sob,  Dame  Durden,  how 
you  sob ! " 

"  It  is  with  exquisite  pleasure,  Guardian  —  with  a  heart 
full  of  thanks." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


459 


"Well,  well,"  said  he.  "I  am  delighted  that  you  approve. 
I  thought  you  would.  I  meant  it  as  a  pleasant  surprise  for 
the  little  mistress  of  Bleak  House." 

I  kissed  him,  and  dried  my  eyes.  "  I  know  now  ! "  said  I. 
"I  have  seen  this  in  your  face  a  long  while." 

"  No  ;  have  you  really,  my  dear  ? "  said  he.  "  What  a 
Dame  Durden  it  is  to  read  a  face ! " 

He  was  so  quaintly  cheerful  that  I  could  not  long  be 
otherwise,  and  was  almost  ashamed  of  having  been  otherwise 
at  all.  When  I  went  to  bed,  I  cried.  I  am  bound  to  confess 
that  I  cried ;  but  I  hope  it  was  with  pleasure,  though  I  am 
not  quite  sure  it  was  with  pleasure.  I  repeated  every  word  of 
the  letter  twice  over. 

A  most  beautiful  summer  morning  succeeded;  and  after 
breakfast  we  went  out  arm  in  arm,  to  see  the  house  of  which 
I  was  to  give  my  mighty  housekeeping  opinion.  We  entered 
a  flower-garden  by  a  gate  in  a  side  wall,  of  which  he  had  the 
key  ;  and  the  first  thing  I  saw,  was,  that  the  beds  and  flowers 
were  all  laid  out  according  to  the  manner  of  my  beds  and 
flowers  at  home. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  observed  my  Guardian,  standing  still, 
with  a  delighted  face,  to  watch  my  looks ;  "  knowing  there 
could  be  no  better  plan,  I  borrowed  yours." 

We  went  on  by  a  pretty  little  orchard,  where  the  cherries 
were  nestling  among  the  green  leaves,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
apple-trees  were  sporting  on  the  grass,  to  the  house  itself,  —  a 
cottage,  quite  a  rustic  cottage  of  doll's  rooms  ;  but  such  a 
lovely  place,  so  tranquil  and  so  beautiful,  with  such  a  rich 
and  smiling  country  spread  around  it ;  with  water  sparkling 
away  into  the  distance,  here  all  overhung  with  summer- 
growth,  there  turning  a  humming  mill ;  at  its  nearest  point 
glancing  through  a  meadow  by  the  cheerful  town,  where 
cricket-players  were  assembling  in  bright  groups,  and  a  flag 
was  flying  from  a  white  tent  that  rippled  in  the  sweet  west 
wind.  And  still,  as  we  went  through  the  pretty  rooms,  out 
at  the  little  rustic  veranda  doors,  and  underneath  the  tiny 
wooden  colonnades,  garlanded  with  woodbine,  jasmine,  and 
honeysuckle,  I  saw,  in  the  papering  on  the  walls,  in  the 
colors  of  the  furniture,  in  the  arrangement  of  all  the  pretty 


460 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


objects,  my  little  tastes  and  fancies,  my  little  methods  and 
inventions  which  they  used  to  laugh  at  while  they  praised 
them,  my  odd  ways  everywhere. 

I  could  not  say  enough  in  admiration  of  what  was  all  so 
beautiful,  but  one  secret  doubt  arose  in  my  mind,  when  I  saw 
this.  I  thought,  0  would  he  be  the  happier  for  it !  Would 
it  not  have  been  better  for  his  peace  that  I  should  not  have 
been  so  brought  before  him  ?  Because,  although  I  was  not 
what  he  thought  me,  still  he  loved  me  very  dearly,  and  it 
might  remind  him  mournfully  of  what  he  believed  he  had 
lost.  I  did  not  wish  him  to  forget  me,  —  perhaps  he  might 
not  have  done  so,  without  these  aids  to  his  memory,  — but  my 
way  was  easier  than  his,  and  I  could  have  reconciled  myself 
even  to  that,  so  that  he  had  been  the  happier  for  it. 

"  And  now,  little  woman,"  said  my  Guardian,  whom  I  had 
never  seen  so  proud  and  joyful  as  in  showing  me  these  things, 
and  watching  my  appreciation  of  them,  "  now,  last  of  all,  for 
the  name  of  this  house." 

"  What  is  it  called,  dear  Guardian  ?  " 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  "  come  and  see." 

He  took  me  to  the  porch,  which  he  had  hitherto  avoided, 
and  said,  pausing  before  we  went  out,  — 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  you  guess  the  name  ?  " 
"  No  !  "  said  I. 

We  went  out  of  the  porch ;  and  he  showed  me  written  over 
it,  Bleak  House. 

He  led  me  to  a  seat  among  the  leaves  close  by,  and  sitting 
down  beside  me,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his,  spoke  to  me 
thus : — 

"  My  darling  girl,  in  what  there  has  been  between  us,  I 
have,  I  hope,  been  really  solicitous  for  your  happiness.  When 
I  wrote  you  the  letter  to  which  you  brought  the  answer," 
smiling  as  he  referred  to  it,  "  I  had  my  own  too  much  in  view  ; 
but  I  had  yours  too.  Whether,  under  different  circumstances, 
I  might  ever  have  renewed  the  old  dream  I  sometimes 
dreamed  when  you  were  very  young,  of  making  you  my  wife 
one  day,  I  need  not  ask  myself.  I  did  renew  it,  and  I  wrote 
my  letter,  and  you  brought  your  answer.  You  are  following 
what  I  say,  my  child  ?  " 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


461 


I  was  cold,  and  I  trembled  violently ;  but  not  a  word  he 
uttered  was  lost.  As  I  sat  looking  fixedly  at  him,  and  the 
sun's  rays  descended,  softly  shining  through  the  leaves,  upon 
his  bare  head,  I  felt  as  if  the  brightness  on  him  must  be  like 
the  brightness  of  the  Angels. 

"Hear  me,  my  love,  but  do  not  speak.  It  is  for  me  to 
speak  now.  When  it  was  that  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
what  I  had  done  would  really  make  you  happy,  is  no  matter. 
Woodcourt  came  home,  and  I  soon  had  no  doubt  at  all." 

I  clasped  him  round  the  neck,  and  hung  my  head  upon  his 
breast,  and  wept.  "Lie  lightly,  confidently,  here,  my  child," 
said  he,  pressing  me  gently  to  him.  "  I  am  your  Guardian 
and  your  father  now.    Kest  confidently  here." 

Soothingly,  like  the  gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves ;  and 
genially,  like  the  ripening  weather ;  and  radiantly  and  benefi- 
cently, like  the  sunshine  ;  he  went  on. 

"  Understand  me,  my  dear  girl.  I  had  no  doubt  of  your 
being  contented  and  happy  with  me,  being  so  dutiful  and  so 
devoted  ;  but  I  saw  with  whom  you  would  be  happier.  That 
I  penetrated  his  secret  when  Dame  Durden  was  blind  to  it, 
is  no  wonder ;  for  I  knew  the  good  that  could  never  change 
in  her,  better  far  than  she  did.  Well !  I  have  long  been  in 
Allan  Woodcourt's  confidence,  although  he  was  not,  until 
yesterday,  a  few  hours  before  you  came  here,  in  mine.  But 
I  would  not  have  my  Esther's  bright  example  lost ;  I  would 
not  have  a  jot  of  my  dear  girl's  virtues  unobserved  and  un- 
honored ;  I  would  not  have  her  admitted  on  sufferance  into 
the  line  of  Morgan  ap  Kerrig,  no,  not  for  the  weight  in  gold 
of  all  the  mountains  in  Wales  ! " 

He  stopped  to  kiss  me  on  the  forehead,  and  I  sobbed  and 
wept  afresh.  For  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  bear  the  painful 
delight  of  his  praise. 

"  Hush,  little  woman  !  Don't  cry  ;  this  is  to  be  a  day  of 
joy.  I  have  looked  forward  to  it "  he  said  exultingly,  "  for 
months  on  months !  A  few  words  more,  Dame  Trot,  and  I 
have  said  my  say.  Determined  not  to  throw  away  one  atom 
of  my  Esther's  worth,  I  took  Mrs.  Woodcourt  into  a  separate 
confidence.  'Now,  madam/  said  I,  (I  clearly  perceive  —  and 
indeed  I  know,  to  boot  —  that  your  son  loves  my  ward.    I  am 


462 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


further  very  sure  that  my  ward  loves  your  son,  but  will  sacri- 
fice her  love  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  affection,  and  will  sacrifice 
it  so  completely,  so  entirely,  so  religiously,  that  you  should 
never  suspect  it,  though  you  watched  her  night  and  day.' 
Then  I  told  her  all  our  story  —  ours  —  yours  and  mine. 
'Now,  madam/  said  I,  'come  you,  knowing  this,  and  live  with 
us.  Come  you,  and  see  my  child  from  hour  to  hour ;  set  what 
you  see,  against  her  pedigree,  which  is  this,  and  this '  —  for  I 
scorned  to  mince  it  —  'and  tell  me  what  is  the  true  legiti- 
macy, when  you  shall  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  on  that 
subject.'  Why,  honor  to  her  old  Welsh  blood,  my  dear ! " 
cried  my  Guardian,  with  enthusiasm,  "  I  believe  the  heart  it 
animates  beats  no  less  warmly,  no  less  admiringly,  no  less 
lovingly,  towards  Dame  Durden,  than  my  own !  " 

He  tenderly  raised  my  head,  and  as  I  clung  to  him  kissed 
me  in  his  old,  fatherly  way  again  and  again.  What  a  light, 
now,  on  the  protecting  manner  I  had  thought  about ! 

"  One  more  last  word.    When  Allan  Woodcourt  spoke  to 
you,  my  dear,  he  spoke  with  my  knowledge  and  consent —  I 
but  I  gave  him  no  encouragement,  not  I,  for  these  surprises 
were  my  great  reward,  and  I  was  too  miserly  to  part  with  a 
scrap  of  it.    He  was  to  come,  and  tell  me  all  that  passed ;  and 
he  did.    I  have  no  more  to  say.   My  dearest,  Allan  Woodcourt  I 
stood  beside  your  father  when  he  lay  dead  —  stood  beside  your  t 
mother.    This  is  Bleak  House.    This  day  I  give  this  house 
its  little  mistress  ;  and  before  God,  it  is  the  brightest  day  in 
all  my  life  !  " 

He  rose,  and  raised  me  with  him.  We  were  no  longer 
alone.  My  husband  —  I  have  called  him  by  that  name  full 
seven  happy  years  now  —  stood  at  my  side. 

"  Allan,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  take  from  me,  a  willing  gift, 
the  best  wife  that  ever  a  man  had.  What  more  can  I  say  for 
you,  than  that  I  know  you  deserve  her !  Take  with  her  the 
little  home  she  brings  you.  You  know  what  she  will  make  it, 
Allan;  you  know  what  she  has  made  its  namesake.  Let 
me  share  its  felicity  sometimes,  and  what  do  I  sacrifice  ? 
Nothing,  nothing." 

He  kissed  me  once  again ;  and  now  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes,  as  he  said  more  softly,  — 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


463 


"  Esther,  my  dearest,  after  so  many  years,  there  is  a  kind 
of  parting  in  this  too.  I  know  that  my  mistake  has  caused 
you  some  distress.  Forgive  your  old  Guardian,  in  restoring 
him  to  his  old  place  in  your  affections  ;  and  blot  it  out  of 
your  memory.    Allan,  take  my  dear  !  " 

He  moved  away  from  under  the  green  roof  of  leaves,  and 
stopping  in  the  sunlight  outside,  and  turning  cheerfully 
towards  us,  said,  — 

"  I  shall  be  found  about  here  somewhere.  It's  a  West  wind, 
little  woman,  due  West !  Let  no  one  thank  me  any  more  ;  for 
I  am  going  to  revert  to  my  bachelor  habits,  and  if  anybody 
disregards  this  warning,  I'll  run  away,  and  never  come  back ! " 

What  happiness  was  ours  that  day,  what  joy,  what  rest, 
what  hope,  what  gratitude,  what  bliss  !  We  were  to  be  mar- 
ried before  the  month  was  out ;  but  when  we  were  to  come  and 
take  possession  of  our  own  house,  was  to  depend  on  Kichard 
and  Ada. 

We  all  three  went  home  together  next  day.  As  soon  as 
we  arrived  in  town,  Allan  went  straight  to  see  Eichard,  and 
to  carry  our  joyful  news  to  him  and  my  darling.  Late  as  it 
was,  I  meant  to  go  to  her  for  a  few  minutes  before  lying  down 
to  sleep ;  but  I  went  home  with  my  Guardian  first,  to  make 
his  tea  for  him,  and  to  occupy  the  old  chair  by  his  side  ;  for 
I  did  not  like  to  think  of  its  being  empty  so  soon. 

When  we  came  home,  we  found  that  a  young  man  had 
called  three  times  in  the  course  of  that  one  day,  to  see  me  ; 
and  that,  having  been  told,  on  the  occasion  of  his  third  call, 
that  I  was  not  expected  to  return  before  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
he  had  left  word,  "that  he  would  call  about  then."  He  had 
left  his  card  three  times.    Mr.  Guppy. 

As  I  naturally  speculated  on  the  object  of  these  visits,  and 
as  I  always  associated  something  ludicrous  with  the  visitor, 
it  fell  out  that  in  laughing  about  Mr.  Guppy  I  told  my  Guard- 
ian of  his  old  proposal,  and  his  subsequent  retractation. 
"  After  that,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  we  will  certainly  receive 
this  hero."  So,  instructions  were  given  that  Mr.  Guppy 
should  be  shown  in,  when  he  came  again  ;  and  they  were 
scarcely  given  when  he  did  come  again. 


464  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

He  was  embarrassed  when  he  found  my  Guardian  with 
me,  but  recovered  himself,  and  said,  "  How  de  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  returned  my  Guardian. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  tolerable,"  returned  Mr.  Guppy. 
"  Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  my  mother,  Mrs.  Guppy  of 
the  Old  Street  Road,  and  my  particular  friend,  Mr.  Weevle. 
That  is  to  say,  my  friend  has  gone  by  the  name  of  Weevle, 
but  his  name  is  really  and  truly  Jobling." 

My  Guardian  begged  them  to  be  seated,  and  they  all  sat 
down. 

"  Tony,"  said  Mr.  Guppy  to  his  friend,  after  an  awkward 
silence.    "  Will  you  open  the  case  ?  " 

"  Do  it  yourself,"  returned  the  friend,  rather  tartly. 

"Well,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  sir,"  Mr.  Guppy,  after  a  moment's 
consideration,  began ;  to  the  great  diversion  of  his  mother, 
which  she  displayed  by  nudging  Mr.  Jobling  with  her  elbow, 
and  winking  at  me  in  a  most  remarkable  manner  ;  "  I  had 
an  idea  that  I  should  see  Miss  Summerson  by  herself,  and 
was  not  quite  prepared  for  your  esteemed  presence.  But 
Miss  Summerson  has  mentioned  to  you,  perhaps,  that  some- 
thing has  passed  between  us  on  former  occasions  ?  " 

"  Miss  Summerson,"  returned  my  Guardian  smiling,  "  has 
made  a  communication  to  that  effect  to  me." 

"  That,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  "  makes  matters  easier.  Sir,  I 
have  come  out  of  my  articles  at  Kenge  and  Carboy's,  and 
I  believe  with  satisfaction  to  all  parties.  I  am  now  ad- 
mitted (after  undergoing  an  examination  that's  enough  to 
badger  a  man  blue,  touching  a  pack  of  nonsense  that  he 
don't  want  to  know)  on  the  roll  of  attorneys,  and  have  taken 
out  my  certificate,  if  it  would  be  any  satisfaction  to  you  to 
see  it." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Guppy,"  returned  my  Guardian.  "I  am 
quite  willing  —  I  believe  I  use  a  legal  phrase  —  to  admit  the 
certificate." 

Mr.  Guppy  therefore  desisted  from  taking  something  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  without  it. 

"I  have  no  capital  myself,  but  my  mother  has  a  little 
property  which  takes  the  form  of  an  annuity  ; "  here  Mr. 
Guppy 's  mother  rolled  her  head  as  if  she  never  could  sufli- 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


465 


ciently  enjoy  the  observation,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  mouth,  and  again  winked  at  me  ;  "  and  a  few  pounds 
for  expenses  out  of  pocket  in  conducting  business,  will  never 
be  wanting,  free  of  interest,  which  is  an  advantage,  you 
know/'  said  Mr.  Guppy,  feelingly. 

"  Certainly  an  advantage,"  returned  my  Guardian. 

"I  have  some  connection,"  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,  "  and  it  lays 
in  the  direction  of  Walcot  Square,  Lambeth.  I  have  therefore 
taken  a  ouse  in  that  locality,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  my 
friends,  is  a  hollow  bargain  (taxes  ridiculous,  and  use  of 
fixtures  included  in  the  rent),  and  intend  setting  up  pro- 
fessionally for  myself  there,  forthwith." 

Here  Mr.  Guppy's  mother  fell  into  an  extraordinary  pas- 
sion of  rolling  her  head,  and  smiling  waggishly  at  anybody 
who  would  look  at  her. 

"  It's  a  six-roomer,  exclusive  of  kitchens,"  said  Mr.  Guppy, 
"and  in  the  opinion  of  my  friends,  a  commodious  tenement. 
When  I  mention  my  friends,  I  refer  principally  to  my  friend 
Jobling,  who  I  believe  has  known  me,"  Mr.  Guppy  looked 
at  him  with  a  sentimental  air,  "  from  boyhood's  hour  ?  " 

Mr.  Jobling  confirmed  this  witn  a  sliding  movement  of  his 
legs. 

"  My  friend  Jobling  will  render  me  his  assistance  in  the 
capacity  of  clerk,  and  will  live  in  the  ouse,"  said  Mr.  Guppy. 
"My  mother  will  likewise  live  in  the  ouse,  when  her  present 
quarter  in  the  Old  Street  Road  shall  have  ceased  and  expired ; 
and  consequently  there  will  be  no  want  of  society.  My 
friend  Jobling  is  naturally  aristocratic  by  taste ;  and  besides 
being  acquainted  with  the  movements  of  the  upper  circles, 
fully  backs  me  in  the  intentions  I  am  now  developing." 

Mr.  Jobling  said  "  certainly,"  and  withdrew  a  little  from  the 
elbow  of  Mr.  Guppy's  mother. 

"Now,  I  have  no  occasion  to  mention  to  you,  sir,  you 
being  in  the  confidence  of  Miss  Summerson,"  said  Mr.  Guppy, 
"  (mother,  I  wish  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  keep  still),  that 
Miss  Summerson's  image  was  formerly  imprinted  on  my  art, 
and  that  I  made  her  a  proposal  of  marriage." 

"  That  I  have  heard,"  returned  my  Guardian. 

"Circumstances,"  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,  "  over  which  I  had 

VOL.  II. 


466 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


no  control  but  quite  the  contrary,  weakened  the  impression  of 
that  image  for  a  time.  At  which  time,  Miss  Summerson's 
conduct  was  highly  genteel ;  I  may  even  add,  magnanimous." 

My  Guardian  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  seemed  much 
amused. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Guppy,  "  I  have  got  into  that  state 
of  mind  myself,  that  I  wish  for  a  reciprocity  of  magnanimous 
behavior.  I  wish  to  prove  to  Miss  Summerson  that  I  can 
rise  to  a  heighth,  of  which  perhaps  she  hardly  thought  me 
capable.  I  find  that  the  image  which  I  did  suppose  had  been 
eradicated  from  my  art,  is  not  eradicated.  Its  influence  over 
me  is  still  tremenjous ;  and  yielding  to  it  I  am  willing  to 
overlook  the  circumstances  over  which  none  of  us  have  had 
any  control,  and  to  renew  those  proposals  to  Miss  Summerson 
which  I  had  the  honor  to  make  at  a  former  period.  I  beg  to 
lay  the  ouse  in  Walcot  Square,  the  business,  and  myself,  before 
Miss  Summerson  for  her  acceptance." 

"Very  magnanimous,  indeed,  sir,"  observed  my  Guardian. 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Guppy,  with  candor,  "  my 
wish  is  to  be  magnanimous.  I  do  not  consider  that  in  making 
this  offer  to  Miss  Summerson,  I  am  by  any  means  throwing 
myself  away;  neither  is  that  the  opinion  of  my  friends. 
Still  there  are  circumstances  which  I  submit  may  be  taken 
into  account  as  a  set-off  against  any  little  drawbacks  of  mine, 
and  so  a  fair  and  equitable  balance  arrived  at." 

"  I  take  upon  myself,  sir,"  said  my  Guardian,  laughing  as 
he  rang  the  bell,  "  to  reply  to  your  proposals  on  behalf  of 
Miss  Summerson.  She  is  very  sensible  of  your  handsome 
intentions,  and  wishes  you  good-evening,  and  wishes  you  well." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Guppy,  with  a  blank  look.  "  Is  that  tanta- 
mount, sir,  to  acceptance,  or  rejection,  or  consideration  ?  " 

"  To  decided  rejection,  if  you  please,"  returned  my  Guardian. 

Mr.  Guppy  looked  incredulously  at  his  friend,  and  at  his 
mother,  who  suddenly  turned  very  angry,  and  at  the  floor,  and 
at  the  ceiling. 

"Indeed?"  said  he.  "Then,  Jobling,  if  you  was  the 
friend  you  represent  yourself.  I  should  think  you  might  hand 
my  mother  out  of  the  gangway,  instead  of  allowing  her  to 
remain  where  she  ain't  wanted." 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


467 


But  Mrs.  Guppy  positively  refused  to  come  out  of  the  gang- 
way. She  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  "Why,  get  along  with  you," 
said  she  to  my  Guardian,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  Ain't  my 
son  good  enough  for  you  ?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.    Get  out  with  you  !  " 

"  My  good  lady  !  "  returned  my  Guardian,  "  it  is  hardly 
reasonable  to  ask  me  to  get  out  of  my  own  room." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Guppy.  "  Get  out  with 
you.  If  we  ain't  good  enough  for  you,  go  and  procure  some- 
body that  is  good  enough.    Go  along  and  find  'em." 

I  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  rapid  manner  in  which  Mrs. 
Guppy's  power  of  jocularity  merged  into  a  power  of  taking 
the  profoundest  offence. 

"  Go  along  and  find  somebody  that's  good  enough  for  you," 
repeated  Mrs.  Guppy.  "  Get  out ! "  Nothing  seemed  to 
astonish  Mr.  Guppy's  mother  so  much,  and  to  make  her  so 
very  indignant,  as  our  not  getting  out.  "  Why  don't  you  get 
out  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Guppy.  "  What  are  you  stopping  here  for  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  interposed  her  son,  always  getting  before  her, 
and  pushing  her  back  with  one  shoulder,  as  she  sidled  at  my 
Guardian,  "  will  you  hold  your  tongue  ?  " 

"  No,  William,"  she  returned  ;  "  I  won't !  Not  unless  he 
gets  out,  I  won't !  " 

However,  Mr.  Guppy  and  Mr.  Jobling  together  closed  on 
Mr.  Guppy's  mother  (who  began  to  be  quite  abusive),  and 
took  her,  very  much  against  her  will,  down-stairs  ;  her  voice 
rising  a  stair  higher  every  time  her  figure  got  a  stair  lower, 
and  insisted  that  we  should  immediately  go  and  find  somebody 
who  was  good  enough  for  us,  and  above  all  things  that  we 
should  get  out. 


468 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

BEGINNING  THE  WORLD. 

The  term  had  commenced,  and  my  Guardian  found  an 
intimation  from  Mr.  Kenge  that  the  Cause  would  come  on  in 
two  days.  As  I  had  sufficient  hopes  of  the  will  to  be  in  a 
flutter  about  it,  Allan  and  I  agreed  to  go  down  to  the  Court 
that  morning.  Richard  was  extremely  agitated,  and  was  so 
weak  and  low,  though  his  illness  was  still  of  the  mind,  that 
my  dear  girl  indeed  had  sore  occasion  to  be  supported.  But 
she  looked  forward  —  a  very  little  way  now  —  to  the  help  that 
was  to  come  to  her,  and  never  drooped. 

It  was  at  Westminster  that  the  Cause  was  to  come  on.  It 
had  come  on  there,  I  dare  say,  a  hundred  times  before,  but  I 
could  not  divest  myself  of  an  idea  that  it  might  lead  to  some 
result  now.  We  left  home  directly  after  breakfast,  to  be  at 
Westminster  Hall  in  good  time ;  and  walked  down  there 
through  the  lively  streets  —  so  happily  and  strangely  it 
seemed  !  —  together. 

As  we  were  going  along,  planning  what  we  should  do  for 
Eichard  and  Ada,  I  heard  somebody  calling  "  Esther !  My 
dear  Esther  !  Esther  ! "  And  there  was  Caddy  Jellyby,  with 
her  head  out  of  the  window  of  a  little  carriage  which  she 
hired  now  to  go  about  in  to  her  pupils  (she  had  so  many),  as 
if  she  wanted  to  embrace  me  at  a  hundred  yards'  distance.  I 
had  written  her  a  note  to  tell  her  of  all  that  my  Guardian  had 
done,  but  had  not  had  a  moment  to  go  and  see  her.  Of  course 
we  turned  back ;  and  the  affectionate  girl  was  in  that  state  of 
rapture,  and  was  so  overjoyed  to  talk  about  the  night  when  she 
brought  me  the  flowers,  and  was  so  determined  to  squeeze  my 
face  (bonnet  and  all)  between  her  hands,  and  go  on  in  a  wild 
manner  altogether,  calling  me  all  kinds  of  precious  names,  and 
telling  Allan  I  had  done  I  don't  know  what  for  her,  that  I  was 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


469 


just  obliged  to  get  into  the  little  carriage  and  calm  her  down, 
by  letting  her  say  and  do  exactly  what  she  liked.  Allan, 
standing  at  the  window,  was  as  pleased  as  Caddy ;  and  I  was 
as  pleased  as  either  of  them ;  and  I  wonder  that  I  got  away  as 
I  did,  rather  than  that  I  came  off,  laughing,  and  red,  and  any- 
thing but  tidy,  and  looking  after  Caddy,  who  looked  after  us 
out  of  the  coach  window  as  long  as  she  could  see  us. 

This  made  us  some  quarter  of  an  hour  late,  and  when  we 
came  to  Westminster  Hall  we  found  that  the  day's  business 
was  begun.  Worse  than  that,  we  found  such  an  unusual  crowd 
in  the  Court  of  Chancery  that  it  was  full  to  the  door,  and 
we  could  neither  see  nor  hear  what  was  passing  within.  It 
appeared  to  be  something  droll,  for  occasionally  there  was  a 
laugh,  and  a  cry  of  "Silence  !"  It  appeared  to  be  something 
interesting,  for  every  one  was  pushing  and  striving  to  get 
nearer.  It  appeared  to  be  something  that  made  the  profes- 
sional gentlemen  very  merry,  for  there  were  several  young 
counsellors  in  wigs  and  whiskers  on  the  outside  of  the  crowd, 
and  when  one  of  them  told  the  others  about  it,  they  put  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  and  quite  doubled  themselves  up  with 
laughter,  and  went  stamping  about  the  pavement  of  the  hall. 

We  asked  a  gentleman  by  us,  if  he  knew  what  cause  was 
on  ?  He  told  us  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  We  asked  him  if 
he  knew  what  was  doing  in  it  ?  He  said,  really  no  he  did 
not,  nobody  ever  did ;  but  as  well  as  he  could  make  out,  it  was 
over.  Over  for  the  day  ?  we  asked  him.  No,  he  said ;  over 
for  good. 

Over  for  good  ! 

When  we  heard  this  unaccountable  answer,  we  looked  at 
one  another  quite  lost  in  amazement.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  the  Will  had  set  things  right  at  last,  and  that  Eichard 
and  Ada  were  going  to  be  rich  ?  It  seemed  too  good  to  be 
true.    Alas  it  was  ! 

Our  suspense  was  short ;  for  a  break-up  soon  took  place  in 
the  crowd,  and  the  people  came  streaming  out  looking  flushed 
and  hot,  and  bringing  a  quantity  of  bad  air  with  them.  Still 
they  were  all  exceedingly  amused,  and  were  more  like  people 
coming  out  from  a  Farce  or  a  Juggler  than  from  a  court  of 
Justice.    We  stood  aside,  watching  for  any  countenance  we 


470  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

knew ;  and  presently  great  bundles  of  p^per  began  to  be  car- 
ried out  —  bundles  in  bags,  bundles  too  large  to  be  got  into 
any  bags,  immense  masses  of  papers  of  all  shapes  and  no 
shapes,  which  the  bearers  staggered  under,  and  threw  down 
for  the  time  being,  anyhow,  on  the  Hall  pavement,  while  they 
went  back  to  bring  out  more.  Even  these  clerks  were  laugh-  | 
ing.  We  glanced  at  these  papers,  and  seeing  Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce  everywhere,  asked  an  official-looking  person  who  was 
standing  in  the  midst  of  them,  whether  the  cause  was  over. 
"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  it  was  all  up  with  it  at  last ! "  and  burst  out 
laughing  too. 

At  this  juncture,  we  perceived  Mr.  Kenge  coming  out  of 
court  with  an  affable  dignity  upon  him,  listening  to  Mr.  Vholes,  - 
who  was  deferential,  and  carried  his  own  bag.    Mr.  Vholes  was 
the  first  to  see  us.   "Here  is  Miss  Summerson,  sir/'  he  said. 
"And  Mr.  Woodcourt." 

"  0  indeed !  Yes.  Truly  ! "  said  Mr.  Kenge,  raising  his  hat 
to  me  with  polished  politeness.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  Glad  to 
see  you.    Mr.  Jarndyce  is  not  here  ?  " 

No.    He  never  came  there,  I  reminded  him. 

"Really,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge,  "it  is  as  well  that  he  is  not 
here  to-day,  for  his  —  shall  I  say,  in  my  good  friend's  absence, 
his  indomitable  singularity  of  opinion?  —  might  have  been 
strengthened,  perhaps ;  not  reasonably,  but  might  have  been 
strengthened." 

"  Pray  what  has  been  done  to-day  ?  "  asked  Allan. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Mr.  Kenge,  with  excessive 
urbanity. 

"  What  has  been  done  to-day  ?  " 

"What  has  been  done,"  repeated  Mr.  Kenge.  "Quite  so. 
Yes.  Why,  not  much  has  been  done ;  not  much.  We  have 
been  checked  —  brought  up  suddenly,  I  would  say  —  upon  the 
—  shall  I  term  it  threshold  ?  " 

"Is  this  Will  considered  a  genuine  document,  sir?"  said 
Allan ;  "  will  you  tell  us  that  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly,  if  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Kenge ;  "  but  we  have 
j lot  gone  into  that,  we  have  not  gone  into  that." 

"  We  have  not  gone  into  that,"  repeated  Mr.  Vholes,  as  if  his 
low  inward  voice  were  an  echo. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


471 


"  You  are  to  reflect,  Mr.  Woodcourt,"  observed  Mr.  Kenge, 
using  his  silver  trowel,  persuasively  and  smoothingly,  "that 
this  has  been  a  great  cause,  that  this  has  been  a  protracted 
cause,  that  this  has  been  a  complex  cause.  Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce  has  been  termed  not  inaptly,  a  Monument  of  Chan- 
cery practice." 

"  And  patience  has  sat  upon  it  a  long  time,"  said  Allan. 

"  Very  well  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge,  with  a  certain 
condescending  laugh  he  had.  "Very  well!  You  are  further 
to  reflect,  Mr.  Woodcourt,  becoming  dignified  to  severity,  "that 
on  the  numerous  difficulties,  contingencies,  masterly  fictions, 
and  forms  of  procedure  in  this  great  cause,  there  has  been 
expended,  study,  ability,  eloquence,  knowledge,  intellect,  Mr. 
Woodcourt,  high  intellect.  For  many  years,  the  —  a  —  I 
would  say  the  flower  of  the  Bar,  and  the  —  a  —  I  would  pre- 
sume to  add,  the  matured  autumnal  fruits  of  the  Woolsack  — 
have  been  lavished  upon  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  If  the 
public  have  the  benefit,  and  if  the  country  have  the  adorn- 
ment, of  this  great  Grasp,  it  must  be  paid  for,  in  money  or 
money's  worth,  sir." 

"Mr.  Kenge,"  said  Allan,  appearing  enlightened  all  in  a 
moment.  "Excuse  me,  our  time  presses.  Do  I  understand 
that  the  whole  estate  is  found  to  have  been  absorbed  in 
costs  ?  " 

"  Hem  !  I  believe  so,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge.  Mr.  Vholes, 
what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 
"And  that  thus  the  suit  lapses  and  melts  away  ?" 
"  Probably,"  returned  Mr.  Kenge.    "  Mr.  Vholes  ?  " 
"  Probably,"  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

"  My  dearest  life,"  whispered  Allan,  "  this  will  break  Eich- 
ard's  heart ! " 

There  was  such  a  shock  of  apprehension  in  his  face,  and  he 
knew  Richard  so  perfectly,  and  I  too  had  seen  so  much  of  his 
gradual  decay,  that  what  my  dear  girl  had  said  to  me  in  the 
fulness  of  her  foreboding  love,  sounded  like  a  knell  in  my 
ears. 

"In  case  you  should  be  wanting  Mr.  C,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vholes, 
coming  after  us,  "you'll  find  him  in  court.    I  left  him  there 


472 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


resting  himself  a  little.  Good-day,  sir ;  good-day,  Miss  Sum- 
merson."  As  he  gave  me  that  slowly  devouring  look  of  his, 
while  twisting  up  the  strings  of  his  bag,  before  he  hastened 
with  it  after  Mr.  Kenge,  the  benignant  shadow  of  whose  con- 
versational presence  he  seemed  afraid  to  leave,  he  gave  one 
gasp  as  if  he  had  swallowed  the  last  morsel  of  this  client,  and 
his  black  buttoned-up  unwholesome  figure  glided  away  to  the 
low  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

"  My  dear  love,"  said  Allan,  "  leave  to  me,  for  a  little  while, 
the  charge  you  gave  me.  Go  home  with  this  intelligence,  and 
come  to  Ada's  by  and  by  ! " 

I  would  not  let  him  take  me  to  a  coach,  but  entreated  him 
to  go  to  Richard  without  a  moment's  delay,  and  leave  me  to 
do  as  he  wished.  Hurrying  home,  I  found  my  Guardian,  and 
told  him  gradually  with  what  news  I  had  returned.  "  Little 
woman,"  said  he,  quite  unmoved  for  himself,  "to  have  done 
with  the  suit  on  any  terms,  is  a  greater  blessing  than  I  had 
looked  for.    But  my  poor  young  cousins  !  " 

We  talked  about  them  all  the  morning,  and  discussed  what 
it  was  possible  to  do.  In  the  afternoon,  my  Guardian  walked 
with  me  to  Symond's  Inn,  and  left  me  at  the  door.  I  went 
up-stairs.  When  my  darling  heard  my  footsteps,  she  came 
out. into  the  small  passage  and  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck; 
but  she  composed  herself  directly,  and  said  that  Richard  had 
asked  for  me  several  times.  Allan  had  found  him  sitting  in  a 
corner  of  the  court,  she  told  me,  like  a  stone  figure.  On  being 
roused,  he  had  broken  away,  and  made  as  if  he  would  have 
spoken  in  a  fierce  voice  to  the  judge.  He  was  stopped  by  his 
mouth  being  full  of  blood,  and  Allan  had  brought  him  home. 

He  was  lying  on  the  sofa  with  his  eyes  closed,  when  I  went 
in.  There  were  restoratives  on  the  table ;  the  room  was  made 
as  airy  as  possible,  and  was  darkened,  and  was  very  orderly 
and  quiet.  Allan  stood  behind  him,  watching  him  gravely. 
His  face  appeared  to  me  to  be  quite  destitute  of  color,  and, 
now  that  I  saw  him  without  his  seeing  me,  I  fully  saw,  for 
the  first  time,  how  worn  away  he  was.  But  he  looked  hand- 
somer than  I  had  seen  him  look  for  many  a  day. 

I  sat  down  by  his  side  in  silence.  Opening  his  eyes  by  and 
by,  he  said,  in  a  weak  voice,  but  with  his  old  smile,  — 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


473 


"  Dame  Durden,  kiss  me,  my  dear  ! " 

It  was  a  great  comfort  and  surprise  to  me  to  find  him  in  his 
low  state  cheerful  and  looking  forward.  He  was  happier,  he 
said,  in  our  intended  marriage,  than  he  could  find  words  to 
tell  me.  My  husband  had  been  a  guardian  angel  to  him  and 
Ada,  and  he  blessed  us  both,  and  wished  us  all  the  joy  that 
life  could  yield  us.  I  almost  felt  as  if  my  own  heart  would 
have  broken,  when  I  saw  him  take  my  husband's  hand,  and 
hold  it  to  his  breast. 

We  spoke  of  the  future  as  much  as  possible,  and  he  said 
several  times  that  he  must  be  present  at  our  marriage  if  he 
could  stand  upon  his  feet.  Ada  would  contrive  to  take  him, 
somehow,  he  said.  "  Yes,  surely,  dearest  Eichard  ! "  But  as 
my  darling  answered  him  thus  hopefully,  so  serene  and  beau- 
tiful, with  the  help  that  was  to  come  to  her  so  near,  —  I  knew 
—  I  knew ! 

It  was  not  good  for  him  to  talk  too  much ;  and  when  he 
was  silent,  we  were  silent  too.  Sitting  beside  him,  I  made  a 
pretence  of  working  for  my  dear,  as  he  had  always  been  used 
to  joke  about  my  being  busy.  Ada  leaned  upon  his  pillow, 
holding  his  head  upon  her  arm.  He  dozed  often ;  and  when- 
ever he  awoke  without  seeing  him,  said,  first  of  all,  "  Where 
is  Woodcourt  ?  " 

Evening  had  come  on,  when  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  saw 
my  Guardian  standing  in  the  little  hall.  "Who  is  that,  Dame 
Durden  ?  "  Richard  asked  me.  The  door  was  behind  him,  but 
he  had  observed  in  my  face  that  some  one  was  there. 

I  looked  to  Allan  for  advice,  and  as  he  nodded  "  Yes,"  bent 
over  Eichard  and  told  him.  My  Guardian  saw  what  passed, 
came  softly  by  me  in  a  moment,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Richard's. 
"0  sir,"  said  Eichard,  "you  are  a  good  man,  you  are  a  good 
man  !  "  and  burst  into  tears  for  the  first  time. 

My  Guardian,  the  picture  of  a  good  man,  sat  down  in  my 
place,  keeping  his  hand  on  Richard's. 

"  My  dear  Rick,"  said  he,  "the  clouds  have  cleared  away,  and 
it  is  bright  now.  We  can  see  now.  We  were  all  bewildered, 
Rick,  more  or  less.  What  matters !  And  how  are  you,  my 
dear  boy  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  weak,  sir,  but  I  hope  I  shall  be  stronger.  I  have 
to  begin  the  world." 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


u  Ay,  truly  ;  well  said  !  "  cried  my  Guardian. 

"  I  will  not  begin  it  in  the  old  way  now/'  said  Kichard  with 
a  sad  smile.  "I  have  learned  a  lesson  now,  sir.  It  was  a 
hard  one ;  but  you  shall  be  assured,  indeed,  that  I  have 
learned  it." 

"Well,  well,"  said  my  Guardian,  comforting  him;  "well, 
well,  well,  dear  boy  ! " 

"  I  was  thinking,  sir,"  resumed  Eichard,  "  that  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  I  should  so  much  like  to  see  as  their  house 
—  Dame  Durden's  and  Woodcourt's  house.  If  I  could  be 
moved  there  when  I  begin  to  recover  my  strength,  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  get  well  there,  sooner  than  anywhere." 

"  Why,  so  have  I  been  thinking,  too,  Rick,"  said  my  Guardian, 
"  and  our  little  woman  likewise ;  she  and  I  have  been  talking 
of  it,  this  very  day.  I  dare  say  her  husband  won't  object. 
What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Eichard  smiled ;  and  lifted  up  his  arm  to  touch  him,  as  he 
stood  behind  the  head  of  his  couch. 

"  I  say  nothing  of  Ada,"  said  Eichard,  "  but  I  think  of  her, 
and  have  thought  of  her  very  much.  Look  at  her !  see  her 
here,  sir,  bending  over  this  pillow  when  she  has  so  much  need 
to  rest  upon  it  herself,  my  dear  love,  my  poor  girl ! " 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  none  of  us  spoke.  He 
gradually  released  her ;  and  she  looked  upon  us,  and  looked 
up  to  Heaven,  and  moved  her  lips. 

"  When  I  get  down  to  Bleak  House,"  said  Eichard,  "  I  shall 
have  much  to  tell  you,  sir,  and  you  will  have  much  to  show 
me.    You  will  go,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  dear  Eick." 

"  Thank  you ;  like  you,  like  you,"  said  Eichard.  "  But  it's 
all  like  you.  They  have  been  telling  me  how  you  planned  it, 
and  how  you  remembered  all  Esther's  familiar  tastes  and  ways. 
It  will  be  like  coming  to  the  old  Bleak  House  again." 

"  And  you  will  come  there  too,  I  hope,  Eick.  I  am  a  solitary 
man  now,  you  know,  and  it  will  be  a  charity  to  come  to  me. 
A  charity  to  come  to  me,  my  love ! "  he  repeated  to  Ada,  as 
he  gently  passed  his  hand  over  her  golden  hair,  and  put  a  lock 
of  it  to  his  lips.  (I  think  he  vowed  within  himself  to  cherish 
her  if  she  were  left  alone.) 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


475 


"  It  was  all  a  troubled  dream  ?  99  said  Eichard,  clasping  both 
my  Guardian's  hands  eagerly. 

"  Nothing  more,  Eick  ;  nothing  more." 

"  And  you,  being  a  good  man,  can  pass  it  as  such,  and  forgive 
and  pity  the  dreamer,  and  be  lenient  and  encouraging  when  he 
wakes  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  can.    What  am  I  but  another  dreamer,  Eick  ?  " 
"  I  will  begin  the  world ! "  said  Eichard,  with  a  light  in  his 
eyes. 

My  husband  drew  a  little  nearer  towards  Ada,  and  I  saw 
him  solemnly  lift  up  his  hand  to  warn  my  Guardian. 

"  When  shall  I  go  from  this  place,  to  that  pleasant  country 
where  the  old  times  are,  where  I  shall  have  strength  to  tell 
what  Ada  has  been  to  me,  where  I  shall  be  able  to  recall  my 
many  faults  and  blindnesses,  where  I  shall  prepare  myself  to 
be  a  guide  to  my  unborn  child  ?  "  said  Eichard.  "  When  shall 
I  go  ?  " 

"Dear  Eick,  when  you  are  strong  enough,"  returned  my 
Guardian. 

"  Ada,  my  darling  ! 99 

He  sought  to  raise  himself  a  little.  Allan  raised  him  so 
that  she  could  hold  him  on  her  bosom  :  which  was  what  he 
wanted. 

"  I  have  done  you  many  wrongs,  my  own.  I  have  fallen 
like  a  poor  stray  shadow  on  your  way,  1  have  married  you  to 
poverty  and  trouble,  I  have  scattered  your  means  to  the  winds. 
You  will  forgive  me  all  this,  my  Ada,  before  I  begin  the 
world  ? 99 

A  smile  irradiated  his  face,  as  she  bent  to  kiss  him.  He 
slowly  laid  his  face  down  upon  her  bosom,  drew  his  arms 
closer  round  her  neck,  and  with  one  parting  sob  began  the 
world.  Not  this  world,  0  not  this  !  The  world  that  sets  this 
right. 

When  all  was  still,  at  a  late  hour,  poor  crazed  Miss  Flite 
came  weeping  to  me,  and  told  me  that  she  had  given  her  birds 
their  liberty. 


476 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

DOWN  IN  LINCOLNSHIRE. 

There  is  a  hush  upon  Chesney  Wold  in  these  altered  days, 
as  there  is  upon  a  portion  of  the  family  history.  The  story 
goes,  that  Sir  Leicester  paid  some  who  could  have  spoken 
out,  to  hold  their  peace ;  but  it  is  a  lame  story,  feebly  whis- 
pering and  creeping  about,  and  any  brighter  spark  of  life  it 
shows  soon  dies  away.  It  is  known  for  certain  that  the  hand- 
some Lady  Dedlock  lies  in  the  mausoleum  in  the  park,  where 
the  trees  arch  darkly  overhead,  and  the  owl  is  heard  at  night 
making  the  woods  ring ;  but  whence  she  was  brought  home, 
to  be  laid  among  the  echoes  of  that  solitary  place,  or  how  she 
died,  is  all  mystery.  Some  of  her  old  friends,  principally  to 
be  found  among  the  peachy-cheeked  charmers  with  the  skele- 
ton throats,  did  once  occasionally  say,  as  they  toyed  in  a 
ghastly  manner  with  large  fans  —  like  charmers  reduced  to 
flirting  with  grim  Death,  after  losing  all  their  other  beaux  — 
did  once  occasionally  say,  when  the  World  assembled  together, 
that  they  wondered  the  ashes  of  the  Dedlocks,  entombed  in 
the  mausoleum,  never  rose  against  the  profanation  of  her 
company.  But  the  dead-and-gone  Dedlocks  take  it  very 
calmly,  and  have  never  been  known  to  object. 

Up  from  among  the  fern  in  the  hollow,  and  winding  by  the 
bridle-road  among  the  trees,  comes  sometimes  to  this  lonely 
spot  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs.  Then  may  be  seen  Sir 
Leicester  —  invalided,  bent,  and  almost  blind,  but  of  worthy 
presence  yet  —  riding  with  a  stalwart  man  beside  him,  con- 
stant to  his  bridle-rein.  When  they  come  to  a  certain  spot 
before  the  mausoleum  door,  Sir  Leicester's  accustomed  horse 
stops  of  his  own  accord,  and  Sir  Leicester,  pulling  off  his  hat, 
is  still  for  a  few  moments  before  they  ride  away. 

War  rages  yet  with  the  audacious  Boythorn,  though  at 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSJTV  OF  ILLINOIS 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


477 


uncertain  intervals,  and  now  hotly,  and  now  coolly ;  flickering 
like  an  unsteady  fire.  The  truth  is  said  to  be,  that  when  Sir 
Leicester  came  down  to  Lincolnshire  for  good,  Mr.  Boythorn 
showed  a  manifest  desire  to  abandon  his  right  of  way,  and  do 
whatever  Sir  Leicester  would  :  which  Sir  Leicester,  conceiving 
to  be  a  condescension  to  his  illness  or  misfortune,  took  in  such 
high  dudgeon,  and  was  so  magnificently  aggrieved  by,  that 
Mr.  Boythorn  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of  commit- 
ting a  flagrant  trespass  to  restore  his  neighbor  to  himself. 
Similarly  Mr.  Boythorn  continues  to  post  tremendous  placards 
on  the  disputed  thoroughfare,  and  (with  his  bird  upon  his 
head)  to  hold  forth  vehemently  against  Sir  Leicester  in  the 
sanctuary  of  his  own  home ;  similarly,  also,  he  defies  him  as 
of  old  in  the  little  church,  by  testifying  a  bland  unconscious- 
ness of  his  existence.  But  it  is  whispered  that  when  he  is 
most  ferocious  towards  his  old  foe,  he  is  really  most  consid- 
erate ;  and  that  Sir  Leicester,  in  the  dignity  of  being  impla- 
cable, little  supposes  how  much  he  is  humored.  As  little  does 
he  think  how  near  together  he  and  his  antagonist  have  suf- 
fered, in  the  fortunes  of  two  sisters,  and  his  antagonist,  who 
knows  it  now,  is  not  the  man  to  tell  him.  So  the  quarrel 
goes  on  to  the  satisfaction  of  both. 

In  one  of  the  lodges  of  the  Park ;  that  lodge  within  sight 
of  the  house  where,  once  upon  a  time,  when  the  waters  were 
out  down  in  Lincolnshire,  my  Lady  used  to  see  the  Keeper's 
child  ;  the  stalwart  man,  the  trooper  formerly,  is  housed. 
Some  relics  of  his  old  calling  hang  upon  the  walls,  and  these 
it  is  the  chosen  recreation  of  a  little  lame  man  about  the 
stable-yard  to  keep  gleaming  bright.  A  busy  little  man  he 
always  is,  in  the  polishing  at  harness-house  doors,  of  stirrup- 
irons,  bits,  curb-chains,  harness-bosses,  anything  in  the  way 
of  a  stable-yard  that  will  take  a  polish :  leading  a  life  of 
friction.  A  shaggy  little  damaged  man,  withal,  not  unlike  an 
old  dog  of  some  mongrel  breed,  who  has  been  considerably 
knocked  about.    He  answers  to  the  name  of  Phil. 

A  goodly  sight  it  is  to  see  the  grand  old  housekeeper 
(harder  of  hearing  now)  going  to  church  on  the  arm  of  her 
son,  and  to  observe  —  which  few  do,  for  the  house  is  scant  of 
company  in  these  times  —  the  relations  of  both  towards  Sir 


478 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


Leicester,  and  his  towards  them.  They  have  visitors  in  the 
high  summer  weather,  when  a  gray  cloak  and  umbrella, 
unknown  to  Chesney  Wold  at  other  periods,  are  seen  among 
the  leaves;  when  two  young  ladies  are  occasionally  found 
gambolling,  in  sequestered  saw-pits,  and  such  nooks  of  the 
park ;  and  when  the  smoke  of  two  pipes  wreathes  away  into 
the  fragrant  evening  air,  from  the  trooper's  door.  Then  is  a 
fife  heard  trolling  within  the  lodge,  on  the  inspiring  topic  of 
the  British  Grenadiers ;  and,  as  the  evening  closes  in,  a  gruff 
inflexible  voice  is  heard  to  say,  while  two  men  pace  together 
up  and  down,  "  But  I  never  own  to  it  before  the  old  girl. 
Discipline  must  be  maintained." 

The  greater  part  of  the  house  is  shut  up,  and  it  is  a  show- 
house  no  longer ;  yet  Sir  Leicester  holds  his  shrunken  state 
in  the  long  drawing-room  for  all  that,  and  reposes  in  his  old 
place  before  my  Lady's  picture.  Closed  in  by  night  with 
broad  screens,  and  illumined  only  in  that  part,  the  light  of 
the  drawing-room  seems  gradually  contracting  and  dwindling 
until  it  shall  be  no  more.  A  little  more,  in  truth,  and  it  will 
be  all  extinguished  for  Sir  Leicester ;  and  the  damp  door  in 
the  mausoleum  which  shuts  so  tight,  and  looks  so  obdurate, 
will  have  opened  and  received  him. 

Volumnia,  growing  with  the  flight  of  time  pinker  as  to  the 
red  in  her  face,  and  yellower  as  to  the  white,  reads  to  Sir 
Leicester  in  the  long  evenings,  and  is  driven  to  various  arti- 
fices to  conceal  her  yawns :  of  which  the  chief  and  most 
efficacious  is  the  insertion  of  the  pearl  necklace  between  her 
rosy  lips.  Long-winded  treatises  on  the  Buffy  and  Boodle 
question,  showing  how  Buffy  is  immaculate,  and  Boodle  villa- 
nous,  and  how  the  country  is  lost  by  being  all  Boodle  and  no 
Buffy,  or  saved  by  being  all  Buffy  and  no  Boodle  (it  must  be 
one  of  the  two,  and  cannot  be  anything  else),  are  the  staple 
of  her  reading.  Sir  Leicester  is  not  particular  what  it  is,  and 
does  not  appear  to  follow  it  very  closely ;  further  than  that 
he  always  comes  broad  awake  the  moment  Volumnia  ventures 
to  leave  off,  and,  sonorously  repeating  her  last  word,  begs 
with  some  displeasure  to  know  if  she  finds  herself  fatigued  ? 
However,  Volumnia,  in  the  course  of  her  bird-like  hopping 
about  and  pecking  at  papers,  has  lighted  on  a  memorandum 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


479 


concerning  herself,  in  the  event  of  "  anything  happening  "  to 
her  kinsman,  which  is  handsome  compensation  for  an  exten- 
sive course  of  reading,  and  holds  even  the  dragon  Boredom  at 
bay. 

The  cousins  generally  are  rather  shy  of  Chesney  Wold  in 
its  dulness,  but  take  to  it  a  little  in  the  shooting  season,  when 
guns  are  heard  in  the  plantations,  and  a  few  scattered  beaters 
and  keepers  wait  at  the  old  places  of  appointment,  for  low- 
spirited  twos  and  threes  of  cousins.  The  debilitated  cousin, 
more  debilitated  by  the  dreariness  of  the  place,  gets  into  a 
fearful  state  of  depression,  groaning  under  penitential  sofa- 
pillows  in  his  gunless  hours,  and  protesting  that  such  fernal 
old  jail's  —  nough  t'sew  fler  up  —  frever. 

The  only  great  occasions  for  Volumnia,  in  this  changed 
aspect  of  the  place  in  Lincolnshire,  are  those  occasions,  rare 
and  widely  separated,  when  something  is  to  be  done  for  the 
county,  or  the  country,  in  the  way  of  gracing  a  public  ball. 
Then,  indeed,  does  the  tuckered  sylph  come  out  in  fairy  form, 
and  proceed  with  joy  under  cousinly  escort  to  the  exhausted 
old  assembly-room,  fourteen  heavy  miles  off ;  which,  during 
three  hundred  and  sixty-four  days  and  nights  of  every  ordinary 
year,  is  a  kind  of  Antipodean  lumber-room,  full  of  old  chairs 
and  tables,  upside  down.  Then,  indeed,  does  she  captivate 
all  hearts  by  her  condescension,  by  her  girlish  vivacity,  and 
by  her  skipping  about  as  in  the  days  when  the  hideous  old 
general  with  the  mouth  too  full  of  teeth,  had  not  cut  one  of 
them  at  two  guineas  each.  Then  does  she  twirl  and  twine,  a 
pastoral  nymph  of  good  family,  through  the  mazes  of  the 
dance.  Then  do  the  swains  appear  with  tea,  with  lemonade, 
with  sandwiches,  with  homage.  Then  she  is  kind  and  cruel, 
stately  and  unassuming,  various,  beautifully  wilful.  Then  is 
there  a  singular  kind  of  parallel  between  her  and  the  little 
glass  chandeliers  of  another  age,  embellishing  that  assembly 
room  ;  which,  with  their  meagre  stems,  their  spare  little  drops, 
their  disappointing  knobs  where  no  drops  are,  their  bare  little 
stalks  from  which  knobs  and  drops  have  both  departed,  and 
their  little  feeble  prismatic  twinkling,  all  seem  Volumnias. 

For  the  rest,  Lincolnshire  life  to  Volumnia  is  a  vast  blank 
of  overgrown  house  looking  out  upon  trees,  sighing,  wringing 


480 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


their  hands,  bowing  their  heads,  and  casting  their  tears  upon 
the  window-panes  in  monotonous  depression.  A  labyrinth  of 
grandeur,  less  the  property  of  an  old  family  of  human  beings 
and  their  ghostly  likenesses,  than  of  an  old  family  of  echoings 
and  thunderings  which  start  out  of  their  hundred  graves  at 
every  sound,  and  go  resounding  through  the  building.  A 
waste  of  unused  passages  and  staircases,  in  which  to  drop  a 
comb  upon  a  bedroom  floor  at  night  is  to  send  a  stealthy 
footfall  on  an  errand  through  the  house.  A  place  where  few 
people  care  to  go  about  alone  ;  where  a  maid  screams  if  an  ash 
drops  from  the  fire,  takes  to  crying  at  all  times  and  seasons, 
becomes  the  victim  of  a  low  disorder  of  the  spirits,  and  gives 
warning  and  departs. 

Thus  Chesney  Wold.  With  so  much  of  itself  abandoned 
to  darkness  and  vacancy  ;  with  so  little  change  under  the 
summer  shining  or  the  wintry  lowering  ;  so  sombre  and 
motionless  always  —  no  flag  flying  now  by  day,  no  rows  of 
lights  sparkling  by  night ;  with  no  family  to  come  and  go,  no 
visitors  to  be  the  souls  of  pale  cold  shapes  of  rooms,  no  stir 
of  life  about  it ;  —  passion  and  pride,  even  to  the  stranger's 
eye,  have  died  away  from  the  place  in  Lincolnshire,  and 
yielded  it  to  dull  repose. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


481 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE  CLOSE  OF  ESTHER'S  NARRATIVE. 

Full  seven  happy  years  I  have  been  the  mistress  of  Bleak 
House.  The  few  words  that  I  have  to  add  to  what  I  have 
written,  are  soon  penned ;  then  I,  and  the  unknown  friend  to 
whom  I  write,  will  part  forever.  Not  without  much  dear 
remembrance  on  my  side.  Not  without  some,  I  hope,  on  his 
or  hers. 

They  gave  my  darling  into  my  arms,  and  through  many 
weeks  I  never  left  her.  The  little  child  who  was  to  have  done 
so  much,  was  born  before  the  turf  was  planted  on  its  father's 
grave.  It  was  a  boy ;  and  I,  my  husband,  and  my  Guardian, 
gave  him  his  father's  name. 

The  help  that  my  dear  counted  on,  did  come  to  her ;  though 
it  came  in  the  Eternal  wisdom,  for  another  purpose.  Though 
to  bless  and  restore  his  mother,  not  his  father,  was  the  errand 
of  this  baby,  its  power  was  mighty  to  do  it.  When  I  saw 
the  strength  of  the  weak  little  hand,  and  how  its  touch  could 
heal  my  darling's  heart,  and  raise  up  hope  within  her,  I  felt 
a  new  sense  of  the  goodness  and  the  tenderness  of  God. 

They  throve  :  and  by  degrees  I  saw  my  dear  girl  pass  into 
my  country  garden,  and  walk  there  with  her  infant  in  her 
arms.  I  was  married  then.  I  was  the  happiest  of  the 
happy. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  my  Guardian  joined  us,  and  asked 
Ada  when  she  would  come  home  ? 

"  Both  houses  are  your  home,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  but  the 
older  Bleak  House  claims  priority.  When  you  and  my  boy 
are  strong  enough  to  do  it,  come  and  take  possession  of  your 
home." 

Ada  called  him  "  her  dearest  cousin,  John."  But  he  said, 
No,  it  must  be  Guardian  now.    He  was  her  Guardian  hence- 

VOL.  II, 


482 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


forth,  and  the  boy's  ;  and  he  had  an  old  association  with  the 
name.  So  she  called  him  Guardian,  and  has  called  him 
Guardian  ever  since.  The  children  know  him  by  no  other 
name  —  I  say  the  children  ;  I  have  two  little  daughters. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Charley  (round-eyed  still,  and 
not  at  all  grammatical),  is  married  to  a  miller  in  our  neigh- 
borhood ;  yet  so  it  is ;  and  even  now,  looking  up  from  my 
desk  as  I  write,  early  in  the  morning  at  my  summer  window, 
I  see  the  very  mill  beginning  to  go  round.  I  hope  the  miller 
will  not  spoil  Charley ;  but  he  is  very  fond  of  her,  and 
Charley  is  rather  vain  of  such  a  match  —  for  he  is  well  to  do, 
and  was  in  great  request.  So  far  as  my  small  maid  is  con- 
cerned, I  might  suppose  Time  to  have  stood  for  seven  years 
as  still  as  the  mill  did  half  an  hour  ago ;  since  little  Emma, 
Charley's  sister,  is  exactly  what  Charley  used  to  be.  As  to 
Tom,  Charley's  brother,  I  am  really  afraid  to  say  what  he  did 
at  school  in  cyphering,  but  I  think  it  was  Decimals.  He  is 
apprenticed  to  the  miller,  whatever  it  was  ;  and  is  a  good 
bashful  fellow,  always  falling  in  love  with  somebody,  and 
being  ashamed  of  it. 

Caddy  Jellyby  passed  her  very  last  holidays  with  us,  and 
was  a  dearer  creature  than  ever ;  perpetually  dancing  in  and 
out  of  the  house  with  the  children,  as  if  she  had  never  given 
a  dancing-lesson  in  her  life.  Caddy  keeps  her  own  little 
carriage  now,  instead  of  hiring  one,  and  lives  full  two  miles 
further  westward  than  Newman  Street.  She  works  very  hard, 
her  husband  (an  excellent  one)  being  lame,  and  able  to  do 
very  little.  Still,  she  is  more  than  contented,  and  does  all 
she  has  to  do  with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Jellyby  spends  his 
evenings  at  her  new  house  with  his  head  against  the  wall,  as 
he  used  to  do  in  her  old  one.  I  have  heard  that  Mrs.  Jellyby 
was  understood  to  suffer  great  mortification,  from  her  daugh- 
ter's ignoble  marriage  and  pursuits ;  but  I  hope  she  got  over 
it  in  time.  She  has  been  disappointed  in  Borrioboola-Gha, 
which  turned  out  a  failure  in  consequence  of  the  King  of 
Borrioboola  wanting  to  sell  everybody  —  who  survived  the 
climate  —  for  Rum  ;  but  she  has  taken  up  with  the  rights 
of  women  to  sit  in  Parliament,  and  Caddy  tells  me  it  is  a 
mission  involving  more  correspondence  than  the  old  one.  I 


# 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


483 


had  almost  forgotten  Caddy's  poor  little  girl.  She  is  not  such 
a  mite  now ;  but  she  is  deaf  and  dumb.  I  believe  there 
never  was  a  better  mother  than  Caddy,  who  learns,  in  her 
scanty  intervals  of  leisure,  innumerable  deaf  and  dumb  arts, 
to  soften  the  affliction  of  her  child. 

As  if  I  were  never  to  have  done  with  Caddy,  I  am  reminded 
here  of  Peepy  and  old  Mr.  Turveydrop.  Peepy  is  in  the 
Custom-house,  and  doing  extremely  well.  Old  Mr.  Turvey- 
drop, very  apoplectic,  still  exhibits  his  Deportment  about 
town  ;  still  enjoys  himself  in  the  old  manner  ;  is  still 
believed  in,  in  the  old  way.  He  is  constant  in  his  patronage 
of  Peepy,  and  is  understood  to  have  bequeathed  him  a 
favorite  French  clock  in  his  dressing-room  —  which  is  not  his 
property. 

With  the  first  money  we  saved  at  home,  we  added  to  our 
pretty  house  by  throwing  out  a  little  Growlery  expressly  for 
my  Guardian  ;  which  we  inaugurated  with  great  splendor  the 
next  time  he  came  down  to  see  us.  I  try  to  write  all  this 
lightly,  because  my  heart  is  full  in  drawing  to  an  end ;  but 
when  I  write  of  him,  my  tears  will  have  their  way. 

I  never  look  at  him,  but  I  hear  our  poor  dear  Richard 
calling  him  a  good  man.  To  Ada  and  her  pretty  boy,  he  is 
the  fondest  father ;  to  me,  he  is  what  he  has  ever  been,  and 
w^hat  name  can  I  give  to  that  ?  He  is  my  husband's  best  and 
dearest  friend,  he  is  our  children's  darling,  he  is  the  object  of 
our  deepest  love  and  veneration.  Yet  while  I  feel  towards 
him  as  if  he  were  a  superior  being,  I  am  so  familiar  with 
him,  and  so  easy  with  him,  that  I  almost  wonder  at  myself. 
I  have  never  lost  my  old  names,  nor  has  he  lost  his  ;  nor  do  I 
ever,  when  he  is  with  us,  sit  in  any  other  place  than  in  my 
old  chair  at  his  side.  Dame  *Trot,  Dame  Durden,  Little 
Woman  !  — all  just  the  same  as  ever;  and  I  answer,  Yes,  dear 
Guardian  !  just  the  same. 

I  have  never  known  the  wind  to  be  in  the  East  for 
a  single  moment,  since  the  day  when  he  took  me  to  the 
porch  to  read  the  name.  I  remarked  to  him  once,  that 
the  wind  seemed  never  in  the  East  now  :  and  he  said,  No, 
truly ;  it  had  finally  departed  from  that  quarter  on  thai?  very 
day. 


484  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

I  think  my  darling  girl  is  more  beautiful  than  ever.  The 
sorrow  that  has  been  in  her  face  —  for  it  is  not  there  now  — 
seems  to  have  purified  even  its  innocent  expression,  and  to 
have  given  it  a  diviner  quality.  Sometimes  when  I  raise  my 
eyes  and  see  her,  in  the  black  dress  that  she  still  wears, 
teaching  my  Eichard,  I  feel  —  it  is  difficult  to  express  —  as  if 
it  were  so  good  to  know  that  she  remembers  her  dear  Esther 
in  her  prayers. 

I  call  him  my  Eichard!  But  he  says  that  he  has  two 
mammas,  and  I  am  one. 

We  are  not  rich  in  the  bank,  but  we  have  always  prospered, 
and  we  have  quite  enough.  I  never  walk  out  with  my 
husband,  but  I  hear  the  people  bless  him.  I  never  go  into  a 
house  of  any  degree,  but  I  hear  his  praises,  or  see  them  in 
grateful  eyes.  I  never  lie  down  at  night,  but  I  know  that  in 
the  course  of  that  day  he  has  alleviated  pain,  and  soothed 
some  fellow-creature  in  the  time  of  need.  I  know  that  from 
the  beds  of  those  who  were  past  recovery,  thanks  have  often, 
often  gone  up  in  the  last  hour,  for  his  patient  ministration. 
Is  not  this  to  be  rich  ? 

The  people  even  praise  Me  as  the  doctor's  wife.  The  people 
even  like  Me  as  I  go  about,  and  make  so  much  of  me  that  I 
am  quite  abashed.  I  owe  it  all  to  him,  my  love,  my  pride  ! 
They  like  me  for  his  sake,  as  I  do  everything  I  do  in  life  for 
his  sake. 

A  night  or  two  ago,  after  bustling  about  preparing  for  my 
darling  and  my  Guardian  and  little  Eichard,  who  are  coming 
to-morrow,  I  was  sitting  out  in  the  porch  of  all  places,  that 
dearly  memorable  porch,  when  Allan  came  home.  So  he  said, 
"  My  precious  little  woman,  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 99 
And  I  said,  "  The  moon  is  shining  so  brightly,  Allan,  and  the 
night  is  so  delicious,  that  I  have  been  sitting  here,  thinking." 

"  What  have  you  been  thinking  about,  my  dear  ? 99  said 
Allan  then. 

"  How  curious  you  are  ! 99  said  I.  "  I  am  almost  ashamed 
to  tell  you,  but  I  will.  I  have  been  thinking  about  my  old 
looks  —  such  as  they  were." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  thinking  about  them,  my  busy 
bee  ?  "  said  Allan. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 


485 


u  I  have  been  thinking,  that  I  thought  it  was  impossible 
that  you  could  have  loved  me  any  better,  even  if  I  had  re- 
tained them." 

" —  Such  as  they  were  ?  "  said  Allan  laughing. 

"  Such  as  they  were,  of  course." 

"My  dear  Dame  Durden,"  said  Allan,  drawing  my  arm 
through  his,  "  do  you  ever  look  in  the  glass  ?  " 
"You  know  I  do;  you  see  me  do  it." 

"  And  don't  you  know  that  you  are  prettier  than  you  ever 
were  ?  "  • 

I  did  not  know  that ;  I  am  not  certain  that  I  know  it  now. 
But  I  know  that  my  dearest  little  pets  are  very  pretty,  and 
that  my  darling  is  very  beautiful,  and  that  my  husband  is 
very  handsome,  and  that  my  Guardian  has  the  brightest  and 
most  benevolent  face  that  ever  was  seen ;  and  that  they  can 
very  well  do  without  much  beauty  in  me  —  even  supposing  — 


THE  END. 


